A case of KCL
by Ernil i Pheriannath
Summary: Whilst still recovering from a quite frankly brutal beating a couple of months ago John is determined to get his friend to have a break. What better than a simple case of a missing dog in the countryside. John thinks that the time away will help his friend heal, little does he know that this will turn into another terrible ordeal for the pair of them.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first proper casefic I've written so be kind, I do hope you enjoying. It is basically written, and I'm in the final stages of editing. Updates will hopefully be on a weekly bases and we are currently on 12 chapter but this may go up if I resort my chapters around.**

 **With always the special thanks to thepiercedbluecat for her great friendship and ever kind words and edits. Please check out her work, she's on my favourite authors page. : )**

 **This work relates to my short story in series 'it takes John Watson to save your life' - story title 'just transport', chapter 15. This fiction can be read standalone but if you want to check it out the background story please head over to look.**

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Chapter 1

Sherlock sat back with a huff, cupping his mobile in his long slender fingers he scowled at John. "I can't believe you convinced me to take the case," he grumbled, "It's not even a four."

He stared out the window at the countryside racing past. The fields were white from the overnight frost, being February, the bitter winter still had a good hold over the temperatures. It had been a particularly cold year for England and John and Sherlock were appreciating the warmth of the heated train.

They had left Kings Cross station only around half an hour ago and the detective was already getting itchy feet from sitting in one spot. He dropped his phone to the table between them and twiddled his thumbs with impatience.

"Why did you also have to choose a case half way across the country?"

"Sherlock?!" John looked up from his book, disgruntled. "You know too well why I've got us out on this case."

The detectives eyes narrowed. "A case of a missing dog is hardly going to stretch the deductive skills is it?"

"Exactly."

The doctor let his eyes fall back down to the page, starting to wonder if he was actually feeling a little nauseous. As ever he had allowed his friend to take the forward facing seat, something muttered about his eyes staying in the direction of travel.

John had been determined to find the detective a more mundane case with Lestrade's help, which meant they could leave London. Sherlock had barely recovered from their last escapades, which had resulted in a kidnapping and beating for the both of them. Sherlock's jaw and cheekbone had been fractured in the process and he had not taken well to the recovery at all. Only a week ago John had been given the all clear but the detective had already thrown himself back into work long before that.

John eyed his friend cautiously over his page as to not give away he was looking. He still notices the signs of lingering pain on the detectives face, his eyes glassy and distant and soft creases in his brows. The doctor wonders exactly how much lasting damage the previous case has actually left his friend not just physically - those scars were beginning to heal - but mentally too. Sherlock is still unhealthily underweight, his cheekbones more chiselled than usual, eyes sunken and darkened from nights of missed sleep. He would obviously deny being a human at every point of questioning

During the past few weeks, he had blocked out any of his friend's advance of helping him, ever since John had involved Mycroft in his care when things got serious. He'd even managed to take the odd case without him which worried John more than anything, the man was still weak and with his track record the doctor knew it would only be a matter of time before he got caught up with another violent criminal. Except this time John worried that in the detective's state of health he would not hold up to facing down a murderer. Perhaps a week away would do them both good, he sighed returning to his page, he bloody hoped so.

"This is absurd. The stupid mutt probably just ran off somewhere!" Sherlock shuffled in his seat, fiddling with his cuffs.

"Yeah probably."

John looked to his watch, it would be another two and a half hours before they would reach Leeds and then another half an hour to Skipton on the edge of the Yorkshire dales where they would need to pick up a hire car to drive to their accommodation. The doctor had hoped that even though the case seemed pretty simple they would be able to spend some time away from the city, give Sherlock a chance to recover and get some fresh air. He had a feeling though that keeping the man out of trouble was going to be a full time job as usual.

"The payment will be worth it though," he finally perked up, giving up on the sentence he had just read at least five times over.

"It's not about money," Sherlock snarled, "Can't I just go home now? This is pointless!"

"No," John folded his arms in defiance, "We're going to have a nice long week in the countryside, no crazy criminal pursuits, no guns, no trouble. Just timeout."

"Boring!" the detective cried, standing quickly and grabbing his phone.

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk," he replied, pushing his way through the doors of the first class area the detective stormed off down the carriage.

John simply shook his head, deciding to return to his novel, perhaps he could get another few chapters in before he had to retrieve his flat mate from bothering a member of the public.

It actually turned out to be barely one chapter before a young lady appeared through the doors looking rather flustered, her hair tightly curled in on itself and a mixture of anger and worry in her eyes.

"Are you John?" she stuttered, holding her pregnant belly in her petit hands.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "What's he done now?"

"I... I think you should come?" she gestured down the train.

John reluctantly downed his book again and with a long sigh he heaved himself up. His feet were tingly from their lack of use and he stamped them slightly as he left the seat. Looking back at their belongings he quickly asked a fellow passenger to watch them.

John followed the young lady two cars up to find one irate gentlemen throwing verbal abuse at a very cool looking Sherlock.

The detective was standing firmly with his arms folded tightly about his chest, his eyes held a unimpressed bored gaze.

"I simply observed," he droned finally as the man finished his rant.

"I'll give you observe mate!" The shorter man bawled his fists. "You fucking bastard can keep your opinions to yourself next time!"

"It's not about opinion it's fact, you may be married but the child is certainly not yours and..."

"Shut your face."

John rubbed a hand over his eyes and exhaled, "Sherlock?" he said finally, drawing the attention of both to him, "That enough now."

"Is he yours!?" the angry husband pointed.

"Afraid so." John stepped forwards, "I apologise for his rudeness, I won't let him bother you again."

"You better not otherwise I'll deck the prick."

Sherlock chuckled, "I'd like to see you try."

That was enough to push the situation one notch too far, the man rounded on the detective, throwing a fist towards his face. Sherlock dodged the blow with ease and didn't even uncurl his folded arms.

"That's enough!" John's soldier commanding tones seemed to stop the pair of them, "Lets go Sherlock!"

He stormed to behind his friend and pushed him forwards and past the livid gentleman.

"So sorry again," John apologised, his face turning red with embarrassment.

"You better be," the man shouted as they walked away.

John marched them at a break neck speed forwards until they finally reached their space.

"Sit."

He forced his flat mate down and into the chair and leant over the table in an angry stance.

"Are you bloody mental!" he growled, "Are you trying to get your jaw re-broken?!"

Sherlock did not answer, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his body away, staring outside once again at the passing landscape like a sulking child.

John sunk back into his own seat, he was more than furious, his pulse was audible and his ears and he knew it would take him several minutes to calm down.

"I'm not picking your sorry ass off the floor next time," he finally said, "So unless you want to end up in hospital again I suggest staying here for the rest of the journey."

The doctor was met by silence. Sherlock did as he was told and did not rise from his seat.

For the next two hours the detective remained seated and silent. To anyone else observing they would have said the detective was sleeping but John knew he had retreated into his mind palace. Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth under his closed lids and his hands remained steepled on his chin, deep in his thoughts.

He stayed there until the doctor had to rouse him for their stop.

"Sherlock," John shook him, "Time to go."

The detective's eyes were bleary and he followed John without a word, as they traipsed from one train to another.

The second train ride was less eventful, Sherlock remained seated once again and muted and John eyed him carefully. Silence was not unusual but he was still worried his friend was suffering the after affects of the recent injuries. He had taken quite a beating; dislocated shoulder, broken fingers and even a stab wound to the leg among other internal injuries. The whole experience had been traumatising for the both of them, and six weeks of having a jaw wired shut was absolute hell for the detective. The doctor had watched him like a hawk during recovery. It seemed however that right now his friend was just sulking.

The second train seemed to go on the blink of an eye, perhaps because the first had been so long. And before John knew it they were dumping their bags into the boot of the hire vehicle. Sherlock seemed pleased with the doctor's choice of car, a large black Audi, he stretched his legs out in the footwell whilst letting the older man drive.

"We'll head to the hotel first," John said, turning out onto the main road. "Then we can review the case before heading to the client's house. She isn't expecting us until 2.30pm so we've got time for a bite of lunch and to unpack."

"Dull," Sherlock had clearly lost interest. He pressed his head against the glass of the car window and admired the rolling hills of the dales. Yorkshire was known as 'God's own county' and there was no wonder, the beauty of the area was second to none.

"You need to eat something, I don't think you've eaten for at least a day," John tried to make conversation but his words went unanswered.

In fact Sherlock's disinterested face did not change at all for over another hour. John checked them into the local hotel 'The Devonshire Fell', an upmarket old Edwardian house which he thought would be right up the detective's street.

They offloaded their belongings and John insisted they took a bite to eat in the restaurant, though quickly wished he hadn't when he realised the prices rivalled any London hotel. The doctor tucked into a ploughman's platter while he annoyingly watched Sherlock push his salad around the plate, nibbling halfheartedly at chunks of perfectly grilled chicken and bacon.

John frowned deeply at his friend, it had been an uphill struggle during his recovery period and the detective's appetite had reduced, if that was even possible.

With his broken jaw wired closed, John had made liquid food for his friend but Sherlock had flat out refused most days. His weight had plummeted dramatically and his body had slowly given in to malnutrition. At this point - with Mycroft's help - they'd had to sedate the man to place a feeding tube.

The entire experience of the last few weeks had been hell to say the least. Even now, despite back to soft but solid food Sherlock was grossly underweight and weak. John had tried to tempt him with his favourites and Mrs Hudson had made an endless supply of cakes and home made goodies but the detective was resistant. The doctor began to wonder how much pain he was actually still in, he had weaned his friend off opioids only days ago but was beginning to regret it. Now since throwing himself back into cases clearly far too early John had hoped a break may just be what Sherlock needed to take his mind off everything.

It was fifteen minutes later, after leaving the hotel, as John pulled up to gates of a large house that Sherlock's face changed from disinterested to gleaming. As the black car began down the long drive the doctor turned to him with a questioning look.

"What is it?"

"Well this looks rather fun," Sherlock smiled, "Well done John. You have picked a rather interesting case haven't you?"

"The case of a missing dog?"

"Oh, this is more than just a missing dog, it's heading to at least a six or seven now,"

the detective flicked his coat collar up and smoothed it, "Good work Watson."

John did not answer, he smiled smugly to himself, glad of his sudden luck.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **You get the next chapter today because this weekend I'm spending two days dressed up as Sherlock himself, I'm at the Sherlocked event and London Comic con. And half an hour ago I walked passed Una Stubbs (aka Mrs Hudson) in the hotel. She's a love.**

 **Anyway, down to the story.**

 **The investigation begins and it soon reveals that this is more than just about a missing dog, when a more sinister crime seems to be the case.**

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Chapter 2

As John's hand left the button of the doorbell an outburst of incessant barking sounded behind the large oak wood. The doctor looked to his friend questioningly.

"Thought the dog was stolen?"

"Different dog, obviously." Sherlock's hawk eyes were taking in the ornate archway, neat pots and baskets framing the porch. During summer months it must have been in full bloom with beautiful flowers. Instead though, now cobwebs hung in the damp dew of the day over the dormant plant life, giving the house a more gloomy welcome.

"Obviously," the doctor echoed just as the front door swung open.

A short stout women stood there, thinning grey hair and a pair of large rimmed glasses hung around her neck. Her clothes were dated but of a high quality, flowery dress and a pinny around her waist where she had clearly been cooking. And in her arms a small brown and white terrier, who was still barking at the new guests.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective introduced himself with a hand which was gladly shaken.

"Oh thank you dear, thank you so much for coming along, long way from London out here," the ladies voice had a thick Yorkshire accent, "And you must be doctor Watson I assume."

She stepped forwards shaking hands with the doctor.

"Please do come in." She hurried off back inside, leading the two of them in. The dog now released to the floor circled around their feet in a hurried excited frenzy, yapping happily.

The hallway was as one would expect. Vast and grand with a staircase leading up to the second floor. The old lady tottered on through and down a short corridor before coming out into a large farm house style kitchen.

"Anything I can get either of you? Tea, Coffee? I've made some cheese scones, they've just come out the oven."

John's face lit up, although the was quite full from lunch the prospect of home made scones made his stomach rumble.

"Just tea," Sherlock mumbled from behind, having idled in the corridor looking at the photographs mounted on the wall.

"How long has your husband been dead Mrs Egerton?" he asked suddenly as he entered the kitchen, taking the room in, in one long and steely gaze.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, "Behave, would you?"

"We're here for a case aren't we?" the detective yelled, "No point in having pointless conversation about the weather, it was a simple question."

"It's hardly..."

Mrs Egerton cut them off, "It's ok dear. I understand, you're a detective I was expecting questions."

She busied herself with the kettle, filling it with water, "It'll be five years next month since I lost him," she said sadly, "Doesn't seem that long at all, God rest his soul."

"I'm very sorry, what happened?" John gave in to the topic of conversation, since they were on it he'd best get the information.

"Died in service in Iraq," Sherlock replied before she could, "Probably an IED."

"How did you?"

"Not a difficult deduction, considering the photographs and the military paraphernalia in the hallway. There was quite an age difference between you two wasn't there?" Sherlock wondered around the kitchen, looking closely at the fridge magnets and the cups on the draining board.

"Yes, Charlie was almost 22 years younger than I. People often joked he was my toy boy."

The lady pulled out a tin of tea and placed two bags into a porcelain teapot.

"Please take a seat." She gestured to the long table which was in the centre of the room.

John abruptly sat, admiring the lady and thinking just how similar she seemed to their very own Mrs Hudson. There was silence for a few minutes as she prepared the brew, set the table in a good old fashioned English way, offering out a plate full of cooling scones in the middle and fresh butter and milk which was clearly from the local dairy farmer.

"Help yourself," she said finally as she placed a bowl of sugar lumps down and sat down herself, leaving only Sherlock now standing.

The Jack Russel had parked itself at the detective's feet and was staring up at him longingly, tongue lounging out its mouth in excitement. Sherlock eyed the creature back with a strange look that John could not decipher but it made him smirk none the less.

The doctor poured himself a cup of tea, adding the milk and stirring it before taking a sip. The drink was divine and he savoured the rich Yorkshire tea aromas and flavours.

"So, your dog has been stolen," he started, "Tell me about what happened?"

Mrs Egerton sighed loudly, taking a long gulp of her own drink before beginning.

"Rocky is a special boy," she said sadly, "Such an amazing dog." She stood and reached for the fridge taking off a picture of a black and white border collie and handing it to John.

The doctor smiled emphatically. "When did he go missing?"

"Three days ago," her eyes began to well with tears. "Why would anyone do this!?" She put the cup down, her hands shaking slightly.

"It's alright." John held out a tissue which he had magicked from inside his coat pocket. "Just take your time."

He heard Sherlock's audible huff from behind him but chose to ignore it, the idiot could wait and be patient for once.

"Thank you, I'm sorry," she sniffed, stifling her tears with the tissue and exhaling. "He was Charlie's dog really, had him since a pup, he'll be nearly 11 now, he's getting on a bit. God knows why anyone would want him, I mean he's a lovely dog but not worth a penny, and he's had the chop too so no chance in breeding from him either?"

"Is there anyone you can think who would want to bring harm to him or have a grudge on you?" The doctor now had his notepad out.

"No, never. I mean he doesn't like my second husband Steven but he would never bring him harm, he loves animals."

"Did he go missing on a walk?"

"No, it was the dead of the night, we never heard a thing. Both my son's were staying over and they never heard anything. Came down in the morning on Tuesday and he was gone. No signs of a break in, it's as if he vanished off the face of the earth, and left little Jack here, they didn't take him!"

"No one heard anything?" Sherlock piped up this time.

"No Mr Holmes, nothing. Not a mouse, no windows broken or left open, the front door still chained and locked. It's a mystery."

"Quite," the detective answered, "What happened to your cleaner yesterday then?"

"What?" John turned to him.

"The cleaner, well I assume she's your cleaner, you don't do the cleaning around the house, not with your arthritis. Why did she leave in a hurry yesterday, what happened?"

"I sacked her." The old lady looked downcast, "such a shame, she's been such a good friend for so many years." She shook her head in disbelief.

"Why was she dismissed?" Sherlock's voice showed he was interested, given that he was now sitting at the table too leaning forwards. "What kind of act would cause you to sack someone you've had living here for so long?"

"It's a bit personal," she hesitated.

"So?"

"Sorry Mrs Egerton, he doesn't mean to be rude." John kicked the detective under the table and Sherlock scowled at him.

"Call me Susan please," she cried. "It's alright doctor Watson, I knew I would have to talk about it at some point. The police have been and they were useless."

"No change there." Sherlock rolled his eyes which resulted in a second kicking and an audible yelp.

Susan ignored the comment and continued, "I heard a bit of a ruckus yesterday morning, my cleaner Elizabeth is, was, always up early to start the house and cook breakfast but this was exceptionally early, about 6am. I heard shouting and it was my younger son Sam. When I rushed to find them they were in my older son Matthew's room. To my horror as I arrived she struck Sam about the face, she was shouting at him and had blood around her lips. For a moment I thought they had come to blows, until of course I saw Matt. Oh, it was awful." She blew her nose noisily, "his neck, it was covered in blood and a bruises. It was as if she had tried to suck the blood from him like a vampire."

At this point Sherlock burst into a slight chuckle. "Do you believe in vampires Mrs Egerton?" he said, stifling his laughter.

"Well, no," she replied, "but what else is the cause of this mad behaviour? Of course I sacked her immediately. She was hysterical. We phoned an ambulance and Matt was taken into hospital, he's really quite poorly. The doctors say it looks like a toxin of some sort."

"Vampiric cleaner, this is interesting." The detective steepled his hands and grinned. "Do go on."

"Well there is little else to add. The police say there was not enough evidence to convict her of anything and Matt is still at Leeds General Infirmary. Not really much of a mystery really, she's not well, I just hope she gets the help she needs?" Susan poured another cup of tea, seeming to have calmed down now somewhat.

"Why do you think she hit your son?" John was jotting down a few notes.

"Probably because he tried to stop her. I still can't believe she would do a thing like this, we've known her for years, she's helped the boys through school and everything, I kept her on after the nanny position was no longer required." The old lady buttered a scone and began to eat.

John followed her but Sherlock did not consider the food. His eyes were distant and the doctor realised he was deducing.

"Any ideas?" he asked.

"Several," the detective answered, "may I have a look around?" he added quickly, rising to his feet and spinning on his heels.

"Of course," the widower stood, "do you want me to give you the grand tour?" she offered.

"Won't be necessary, you can sit here with John and talk about the weather or TV soaps or whatever you simple people talk about."

He left, his coat bellowing as he darted out the room and back down the hallway.

"I'm sorry," John said sadly, his mouth full of food. "He really is an ass sometimes."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: short linking chapter here so thought you might appreciate an update now followed by another at the weekend.**

 **Enjoy...**

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Chapter 3

"So, what do you think?" John pushed the car into drive and they headed out of the steel iron gates of the old country house.

"Interesting."

"Find anything in your snoop around?"

"Hmm."

"Care to share?"

Sherlock took a long breath before rattling off his findings.

"The nanny left in a hurry alright, she hasn't taken all of her things, which means she was either threatened or scared or believes she will be back again. It seems less likely that she actually committed the crime, both sons have pictures in their rooms with her in so they clearly care about her. However, murder, or in this case attempted murder, is more statistically likely to be someone known to the victim, usually a family member or close friend, so we can't rule it out completely."

"What about the second husband?" John asked. The doctor glanced sideways at his friend as they waited at a set of traffic lights and then noted the light shake in the detective's hands.

He frowned. Had he actually eaten any of that lunch?

John chose to store this information for the time being but his doctor's mind said he would give his friend the once over once they were back at the hotel.

"Possible," Sherlock flicked through his phone.

"You don't think so?"

"Not sure yet," the detective continued, "either way, we need to talk to the unwell brother and the nanny to get their sides of the story first. Then perhaps the other brother who was there."

"Where to first?" John joined the traffic towards Skipton.

"The hospital." Sherlock motioned forwards but was glued to the screen of his mobile. "I need to speak to the victim first. He's the most reliable witness."

John did not ask anymore questions until they reached Leeds general infirmary, it was over a 40 mile drive for them. Sherlock remained deeply engrossed in his phone so he left him be to deduce alone during the journey. But the burning question was just asking to be expressed. "What about the stolen dog?" the doctor asked as he locked the car and hurried after his friend's long strides across the car park.

"What about it?"

"Any ideas of where it is?"

"Inside job," Sherlock grumbled, an air of impatience in this voice. He made his way through the front entrance and headed to the lifts, he clearly had already looked up were their victim was residing. "Obviously," he added as the older man caught up.

"Oh." John stepped into the elevator. "Okay."

Sherlock continued with a clipped tone, waiting for his companion to keep up.

"You heard the insistent barking when we got there. If any stranger had snatched the dog then the occupants of the house would have woken to the noise, seeing as the small terrier remained quiet shows he knew the perpetrator. My guess the same person who attacked the son." He let out a long and measured breath, leaning back against the side of the small space, he closed his eyes for a second of composure.

John eyed him, "You alright?"

"Fine," was the snarled response, "I'm not an invalid John."

"Sorry, just... " the doctor opened and closed his mouth like a fish, "just worried about you," he finally added.

"Well I'm fine," Sherlock replied, his voice still edged with annoyance. "My jaw is healed now, and if it's about the food again, I'm on a case. You know I don't eat while I'm on a case."

"I know," the doctor sighed, "but it's not like you have much in reserve is it."

"Bugger off."

The detective pushed past his friend and out the doors of the elevator, heading into the ward off the stairwell.

By the time John actually caught his friend up Sherlock had stopped by the bedside of a young man and a nurse had intercepted him.

"I'm here to speak to Mr Egerton." Sherlock pulled out a police ID card and flashed it towards the woman, "I need to speak to him with regards to the incident yesterday."

"Well, Mr Lestrade," she read the card aloud and John rolled his eyes.

How many of those cards did Sherlock possess, or was he making new ones now?

"As I'm aware the police have already taken a statement and Matthew here isn't really up for much talking I'm afraid."

"Are you telling me I came all the way from New Scotland Yard to waste my time Nurse Lawton?" The detective pulled his mobile back out, "I suppose I can get the superintendent on the phone to have a word with the hospital and see that my time is rightly paid for from your monthly wages." He began to dial.

"It's ok, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement." The young nurse, who was seemed to be newly qualified paled dramatically, "I suppose a few minutes won't hurt." She scurried off.

"Now that, was not nice," John scolded, "next time let me deal with the people yeah."

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Thank a god Mycroft is the government and not you." The doctor shook the thought off, now wouldn't that be a disaster waiting to happen.

"Here," the detective ignored the comment and handed the medical file to John to read, "cast your professional eyes over this." He rounded on the bed and sat in the seat.

Sherlock looked to the bed, the man was sound asleep, a heavy dressing was cast around his neck and he was hooked up to an ECG and pulse oximetry.

"Matthew?" he said loudly in the hope to wake the patient. It worked, the young man's eyes shot open in surprise. "Hello there." Sherlock smiled falsely, "I'm here from the police to ask you some questions."

"You already took my statement," the weak voice of the sick man replied.

"Yes well your mother hired a consulting detective so I'm here to ask you some more."

"Oh...okay." Matthew pulled himself up a little, grimacing. "Can I see your ID, Mr?"

"Mr Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." The detective smiled again, "I don't have an ID I'm afraid, don't go for that sort of thing."

"And my mother sent you?" He frowned.

"Yes, about your missing dog, but I'm more interested in what's happened to you?"

"I don't remember." The young man closed his eyes. "I only remember Aunt Liz, she was bending over me, and my neck was on fire, after then(?) I was in the ambulance."

"Did you wake up any time in the night?" John took two pictures of the clinical records on his phone whilst the staff had their backs turned. "Nothing out the ordinary that evening before?"

"Nothing," Matt cried, "honestly, nothing weird had happened, except of course Rocky going missing two nights before. Aunt Liz would never have hurt a fly, she was the gentlest person I ever met, I know it can't have been her."

"Have you seen her since?" Sherlock raised a brow at his companion.

"No. As far as I was aware the police had arrested her?"

"They had." John slotted the file back in the box at the foot of the bed. "But she was released without charge this morning."

"Oh thank god. The poor women must be in pieces. I hope my mother regrets her decision to sack her."

"Hmm." Sherlock looked across the ward, thinking hard.

"Is that your brother?" John pointed to the nurses station where a young man was sounding rather irate.

"Yes, Sam has quite a temper on him. Apparently the nurses should have changed my drip over two hours ago. Not their fault, I know how busy they are."

John nodded in reply, he knows all too well how stretched the NHS was becoming, it wasn't the front line staffs fault. "Always been like that?" he finally asks.

"Ever since I made it into law school," Matt sniggered, then grimaces a little. John eyed the monitors beside his bed, taking a couple of notes down.

"Works in a garden centre doesn't he?" Sherlock looked back to the man in the bed.

"How did you know?"

"Easy," the detective smirked, "dirt under the finger nails, cut short, callus' on his palms despite being young and mild back pain. The mud on his boots isn't local to here, it's a distinctive compost and there's debris from a conifer in his hair. He doesn't drive a van so not likely to be a personal gardener and there's a couple of garden centres close by. Not the most difficult deduction."

"Wow," the man in the bed boggled.

"Yeah he does that." John pulled away the man's stare. "Listen, did they say what they thought was wrong with you?"

"I'm not sure. They were thinking some sort of toxicity, whoever did it tried to inject me with it in my neck apparently."

"While you were asleep?" Sherlock asked.

"I suppose so."

"Excellent." The detective jumped to his feet. "Get well soon Mr Egerton, we'll be in touch."

Before John could excuse himself too Sherlock was by the desk and talking to the brother, who's face was more than a little angry. The doctor didn't hear a word of their conversation before heading into earshot.

"Come along John." The detective swept his coat around in as much dramatics as only Sherlock Holmes could ever manage. "We have work to do."

"Dog was a ploy," Sherlock smiled. "Oh this is fitting together perfectly."

"What?" John hurried after him, "have you solved it?"

It wouldn't be a first.

"Almost." The detective strode out for the lift. "I just need to confirm a few things first."

"Thinking of sharing anytime?" the doctor scowled, "you know, two heads make lighter work and all that."

Sherlock doesn't answer, he steeples his hands together below his chin as he waits for the lift and smiles. "Oh this is super fun."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: thank you so much to all my followers and reviews, it's always welcome. It's been a hellish week at work and I've just had to rework some of this chapter with regards to tenses. Constructive criticism always welcome. Enjoy... ps. Medical and slang explainations at the end of the chapter.**

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Chapter 4

"Slow down!" John hurried after his friend as Sherlock strode out across the car park towards their hire car. "Why are you shutting me out. Bit in the dark about what's going on here?"

The detective ignored his friend's comment, "No slowing now. Finally something fun is happening, no time to waste." Sherlock reached for the door of the car and stopped dead before his friend caught up with him. He bends slightly and a small shudder passes through him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock?" John warns, looking at his friend closely. "You can't shut me out forever."

The detective's face has paled somewhat, his breaths are short and sharp.

John's voice turned stern. "Seriously, you need to slow down. You've been racing around way to early while recovering, your body is not going to take it."

Sherlock shot his friend a piercing gaze before wrenching the door open and getting in with a huff.

"We're heading back to the hotel." John says as he buckles his seat belt, pulling the ignition keys from his coat.

"But..."

Before the detective can say another word the doctor talks over him, his voice raised in his Captain Watson tone.

"We're going back, it might be just past 7pm but it's too late to be racing around Yorkshire. Not only is it bloody freezing, this also isn't London you know, people actually go to be before 10 up here. We're turning in for the day and you're going to eat something substantial for dinner, then you're going to let me give you a once over and you're going to take some pain killers for once, and if I say you need something stronger your having something stronger. Then your get a full night's sleep. We'll visit the nanny tomorrow, it can wait."

Sherlock frowned so deep in response that his eyes almost close. He pouts like a child who's been grounded.

"Whatever." He folds his arms and turns his body away to look out the side window.

John thought he heard a snarl of distain but he ignored it and started the engine. He's afraid it's going to be a long evening.

John isn't wrong. The evening turns into more than a little tedious, and when they reach the hotel restaurant he feels his own patience beginning to wain for even John Watson. He ordered the detective a small bowl of risotto and himself a traditional steak.

The doctor watched Sherlock push the rice and mushrooms around the bowl for a good fifteen minutes before actually completely losing his cool.

"You need to eat something."

"Why?"

"You're a chemist Sherlock, do I really need to go into why the human body needs sustenance?"

John chewed on the perfectly cooked meat, being any other time he might have enjoyed his meal but right now the worry in the pit of his stomach was not helping.

"You can't survive on tea alone, you're already well underweight, we've already discussed you not continuing on like this Sherlock."

"My transport does not need food everyday," the younger man grumbled.

"No matter how much you try to not believe it, you are a human being and you do need food on a daily bases, biology dictates this, so eat your bloody dinner." John pointed the fork at him menacingly before stuffing a chip into his mouth. "Eat!"

There was a long and tense pause before finally the detective piled on a spoonful of rice and took a mouthful.

John looked away and across the smart restaurant room at the other guests but kept his eyes half on his friend and watched carefully. Sherlock chewed slowly and clearly tried to school his face into an indifferent stare, but as he swallowed his food a small grimace passes over his features.

The doctor did not mention it though. John never understood Sherlock's relationship with food. He once asked Mycroft but got the usual cryptic mystery answer he was used to. He suspected that sometime during the detective's youth when had begun his drug taking he had developed an unhealthy relationship with eating, probably a combination of his stubbornness and times of withdrawal. At some point John may have to do some digging if his friend didn't begin to eat better. For now he left it, and kept a close eye as he slowly made his way through the dish.

It was almost 40 minutes later after awkwardly trying not to stare at Sherlock that the detective placed his fork down and pushed the half empty bowl forwards.

"Happy?" he bit, "can I leave the table now?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Let's go." He left the meal on the room tab and followed his friend up to the hotel room.

Sherlock dropped to the edge of the bed when they made it into the room, he sat with his back to his friend and pulled out his phone, typing madly into the touch screen. Upon arriving at the hotel John had been disappointed that they had only double rooms available, just another reason for people to couple the pair of them up again, the receptionist had eyed them with an interested glare when they had checked in. The detective as usual hadn't even noticed. But when entering the room he did complain he would have preferred his own space and that John snored too loud for his thinking.

"So come on then, what's the deal?" John asks, he's had enough of not being kept in the loop.

"What do you think of those medical records?" Sherlock smiles, stopping his typing and raising his brows questioningly, "Anything interesting on them?"

The doctor unlocks his phone, plonking himself in a chair opposite his friend he flicks through the images he's saved. He really hadn't looked that closely at the victim's records, nothing overly stood out, so he took a few minutes to read through them carefully. It was clear Sherlock was already one step ahead of him and awaiting John to catch up.

"Well, he was bradycardic and his ECG is abnormal on admit..." John looks closely at the trace, "no P waves, peaked T waves and reduced QT intervals, which is usually indicative of...

"Go on," Sherlock butts in with impatience.

"Hyperkalemia." The doctor flicked through the photos reading more. "Which was confirmed on bloods, potassium levels 8.3mmol!"

John's eyes widen at the numbers on the page.

"Bloody hell. How was he not dead on arrival."

"What else did he have on arrival?" The detective folded his arms, exhaling in an exasperated sigh.

"Alright smart arse," John grumbled. "Apparently, you're a doctor too now, are you? Sorry I've not had time to look over the records in details because I've been driving you around since we got here." He looked over the files but can't see anything of significance jumping out at him. "What else then?" He finally gives in.

"The wound on his neck?" Sherlock replied acerbically.

"You mean the one the Nanny caused biting him?" The doctor frowned.

"No." the detective is losing his patience and John is losing the will to live.

"Well just tell me then..." he shot back.

Sherlock gives in then and deduces at his usual pace of explanations.

"Matt was presented with a raised and a near fatal level of potassium in his blood stream. There are no signs of kidney disease on his blood sample which is one of the most common causes of high levels which means he has either ingested or been injected with it to induce this high level. The wound on his neck is necrotic muscle and skin around his jugular vein. This kind of wound can happen due to a number of reasons, one being the subcutaneous or intramuscular injection of potassium, meaning..." he looked to his friend.

"The killer tried to murder him with potassium injections," John finally catches on.

"Probably into the jugular vein." Sherlock sat back, "Untrained hand with needles so likely ended up in the muscle and surrounding structures."

"So no doctors involved?" John smiled.

"Yes, I think we can safely rule you out as a suspect, John." The annoyance is gone from the detectives face and they both let a gaze of understanding pass between them. "It rules out quite a number of people actually." Sherlock cocks his head to the side.

"Really?" John pulled out a small medical bag from his case and placed it on the bed unzipping it.

"Yes. Doctors, nurses, vets, paramedics, lab technicians, drug addicts, phlebotomists..." he begins to list.

"Yes alright," John cut in, "I get the point, untrained professional attempted murder by potassium injection."

"Just making sure."

"I might be slow but there is one thing I'm decent at. Come on, coat off. I need to give you a check over." John pulled his stethoscope out the bag and held it up. "No arguments."

Sherlock sighed loudly. After a pause he shrugged his large coat off and draped it over the bedside chair. He then pulled his jacket off and relents to his friend's advances, this has become somewhat of a routine over the past couple of months, a bit of a compromise of being discharged early was the promise of John's regular input and feedback to the hospital on Sherlock's recovery progress.

The fact that he gives in so easily this time worries the doctor somewhat, since being back on cases Sherlock had near avoided John's advances of help or concern at every point possible.

"Any pain?" John asked, warming the bell of the stethoscope before he slipped it under his friend's shirt to listen to his chest. The procedure was a rehearsed thing.

"No," the detective's baritone booms in his ears. He listens for a good couple of minutes, moving it over his friend's lung fields to ensure his airways are clear and functioning well, his lungs had taken a long while to heal from the initial contusions.

"You're a terrible liar." John pulled the thing from his ears and taking out a thermometer probe, he checks his friend's temperature. "I've seen you wincing at multiple intervals throughout the day so there's no point in denying it." He looked at the numbers on the machine once it beeps. "And you have a mildly raised temperature too."

"So?"

"So. If your injuries are still causing you pain or worse a post operative infection you need to tell me. I wouldn't be surprised, you're not healing well, probably due to malnutrition."

"I just ate dinner didn't I? Must you constantly repeat yourself, it's tedious." He sucked in a short breath when the doctor palpates his shoulder joint. Sherlock's face screwed into a tight grimace and a small stifled cry escaped his throat.

John frowns deeply. "Still causing some gyp huh?"

Sherlock has paled considerably again and the doctor noted not just the obvious lines of pain across his features but the short shallow breaths which he tries to desperately to hide. For the man to show any signs of discomfort means that he must be in considerable discomfort, John is never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock's pain threshold. The detective once arrived at John's work with a gunshot wound to the leg to tell him he required some help and surgical instruments to remove the embedded bullet, the doctor later found out he had walked over three miles from the other side of the city just to ask him for assistance having lost his phone and money in the shooting. John shook his head as he the thought of the day, even then he was sure he hadn't looked quite this bad despite being in shock. The detective was clearly in a great deal of agony right now.

"What about your jaw?" John reached up.

"Don't." Sherlock pulled away from his friend's hands. "Leave it." He barked, recoiling back.

The doctor gave in then, knowing he's not going to get any further right now. He repacked the bag and clicked the kettle on to boil. Minutes later he presented his friend with a steaming cup of tea and three pills, two paracetamol and a morphine tablet. Not long ago they had discussed weaning Sherlock off the opioid pain relief and he had been clear of it a week now, John however was not convinced this had been such a good idea. Having Sherlock on opioids was always a risk but right now he was willing to take it, he also knew very little else touched the sides with his friend's past drug habits.

"Take these and for goodness sake get some sleep, we'll reassess your pain level in the morning, I don't want you on opioids unless we have to but I also can't stand to see you torture yourself a moment longer you bloody berk." He thrust the hot drink into one hand and the tablets into the other.

Sherlock looked from the tablets to John nervously. "Are you sure this is wise?"

"I'm not letting you suffer you idiot, just take them, and we can talk about the implications later, right now pain relief is more important," he said, mostly happy with his decision. "I'm taking a bath, will you be ok?"

Sherlock nodded in reply.

John turned to the en-suit bathroom to run himself a long hot bath, he would have to deal with the fallout of this tomorrow, right now they both needed a break, it had been a long day.

Sherlock did not protest again and John is surprised on his return to the bedroom over an hour later that the detective has donned his silk pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt and is curled up on his side sound asleep.

Thank god for small victories.

* * *

Bradycardic - an abnormally low heart rate, indicates many many problems including too much potassium in the blood.

P, Q and T waves are all part of the ECG heart trace. If you want to learn more about them then feel free to google about it. Learning how to interpret ECG's is very interesting. Potassium levels can cause a change in the wave formation which is what John is describing here.

Hyperkalemia - means a high level of potassium in the blood, normal blood levels are around 3.5-5mEq/L, this however may vary slightly. High levels can be caused by diabetic problems, reduced renal (kidney) function and muscle damage/death. High (and low) levels are life threatening. If anyone is interested I once saw a tortoise with a level of 23.4 - it was alive and some of this was artificially high due to the test being run 24hours after the sample being taken, reptiles are just a whole other kettle of fish literally.

Subcutaneous - under the skin

Intramuscular - into the muscle

Interestingly if you wanted to kill someone with an injection of potassium into the bloodstream it would not show up in a post mortem as the levels in the blood rise very quickly after death and unless they found an injection site the cause of death may well not be identified. (Thankfully I'm not killer don't worry)

Gyp - this is an English slang word meaning pain or trouble e.g. 'My ankle has been giving me some gyp.'

Berk - another English slang word for moron or idiot. Interestingly it comes from London Cockney rhyming slang and dates back to the 1930's where it was a rhyming slang for Berkeley Hunt (a hunting pack in west England). The rhyme is for the 'hunt' part which rhymes with the lovely word 'c***' nowhere days berk just thrown around generally less in the English language.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the continued support. It's safe to say I have enjoyed writing this story very much and I have another case fic (hopefully better than this one) being concocted, it will likely take me sometime to fully write but I want you all to know I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, I love writing too much.**

 **Enjoy.**

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Chapter 5

John woke up early the next morning, in fact dawn had only broken when he cracked his eyes open. He found his friend already pottering around the hotel room, the smell of humid air from the shower was evident in the air.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, looking blearily at the small bedside clock. "Bloody hell Sherlock, it's barely 7, have you ever had a lie in in your life?"

"You've been snoring since four, I got bored." Sherlock was stood by the mirror, straightening out his shirt, a dark grey blue had been selected for today.

How the man always looked so neat John could never understand, right now his own hair was a tangled mess and he probably looked like death warmed up. Mornings were not his forte, even more so since living with the detective. Too many late night escapades chasing criminals.

John stretched and groaned as his joints clicked and a twinge shot down his arm. The cold weather never did his battle scars any good, his old gunshot wound always caused a lingering ache during winter months. The only relief was Mrs Hudson's mystery pain relieving cream, John didn't want to know what was in the stuff but it worked miracles for the discomfort.

"Hurry up John, we have work to do."

"Really, I thought we were having a relaxing few days away." John pulled the duvet over his head and yawned, "How do you have so much energy?"

"Case John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes, I know, I'm coming."

It was a good while before they got out on the road that morning. John had insisted on food and to his surprise Sherlock wolfed down an entire English cooked breakfast, tea and toast, John had eyed him with an air of uncertainty from across the table. The day seemed to be colder than yesterday when they made it out. Temperatures were barely above zero, and the ground was hard from overnight freeze yet the sky, perfectly clear with the low winter sun.

"Where to?"

The car complained as the ignition is turned but the engine spluttered to life finally. John tuns the heater on full and rubbed his gloved hands together in a bid to warm himself at least a little.

"The nanny's house," Sherlock pulled out his phone and tapped open the map application. "Head towards Harrogate and I'll tell you where to go."

John isn't sure why he's been tasked with driving every time they've currently been out but Sherlock seems to have insisted on it, either due to the pain he was hiding or perhaps simply that driving was 'boring' but John was happy to oblige. The doctor decides to leave questioning his friend's pain levels for the time being, best to keep him in a good mood for now.

By he time they reach the house of Elizabeth, the lady accused of attacking Matthew Egerton, it's almost mid morning. John parks the car on the street directly outside, and is reluctant to leave the confines of the now toasty warm vehicle. The house in question is a small traditional English cottage style but only big enough to be one or two bedroom. The lady must have used it as a second home for time away from work seeing as she had her own private room back at the large farmhouse.

Sherlock pressed his finger on the doorbell and waited. The long pause tells them there is no one in so he hits the button again.

"Perhaps she's gone out shopping?" John tried to look in the net curtains but he can't see through the material, they're dirty and in need of washing, another clue that the resident barely resides here.

"No. Her car is still here and the nearest shop is over two miles away, last time someone came down the path was late last night." Sherlock pointed to the frosted ground in the shadows, undisturbed except by the two sets of shoes belonging to themselves. But looking closely John can see faint lines of another set of prints but not fresh "She's still here." He pushed the bell for the third time.

"Probably think we're the police again." The doctor looked upstairs to the windows, but there are no signs of anyone peeping out, the curtains remain undisturbed.

Sherlock pulled the letterbox open and begins peering inside, his patience waning.

"Elizabeth Mansfield?" he shouted through the small hole, "My names Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to talk to you about what happened the day before yesterday, I'm not the police or the press."

Again there is no answer from the house and Sherlock is already switching into deductive mode. "Door was opened late last night but not since, closed from the outside not in, a friend, she has to be here."

"Well you can't make her come to the door."

The detective looked through the letter box again and then proceeds to fold his boney hand through the thing, reaching up for the keys, set in the lock on the other side.

"What are you doing!" John is surprised that half his friend's gangly arm can actually fit through the small space, just more proof that he needs to gain some more weight.

"What does it look like?" The lock clunks, and the door cracks open, he pulls his appendage free and pushes the door fully wide. "We're going to find out why she's hiding," he gleamed, stepping over the threshold.

John follows suit.

"Miss Mansfield?" The detective shouted. He pushed the door closed, blocking out the cold bitter air, although inside doesn't seem much warmer.

"Hello?"

Sherlock strode over to the telephone which is flashing one message on the answer machine. He presses play. The voice in the recorder is none other than Matthew, he must have called from hospital earlier that morning.

'Auntie Liz, hey, it's me. I really hope you're ok? I just wanted to thank you. I know it wasn't you.' A pause. 'Listen, once I'm out of here I'll come over and catch up, hopefully Mum will change her mind and you can come back home again? Anyway, I've got to go.' The line cut off, the detective clicked his mobile off record before inspecting the telephone.

Not been used for perhaps a couple of days, he muses.

"Erm, Sherlock?"

The younger man turned to see his friend in the open doorway to another room. John is pointing inside the said room and Sherlock sends him a questioning look.

"I think we've found out why she wasn't opening the door."

Sherlock joined the doctor's side and looked into what was the living room.

There, on the sofa, now stained in red is the cooling corpse of Elizabeth Mansfield, her blank green eyes are staring hauntingly back at them in the hall.

"Excellent." The detective brought his hands up together happily and he grinned widely. "Always fun when there's a body."

"Sherlock?" John looked both sad and slightly appalled at his best friend's behaviour. The detective pushed past him, pulling out his magnifier from his pocket before flicking it open and beginning to inspect the cadaver.

"Shouldn't we call the local police first?" The doctor lingered in the doorway, hesitantly.

"They'll be useless." Sherlock is on his knees and peeling back the blood soaked dress from the ladies torso, it's ripped and a large imposing puncture wound sits underneath.

"Come and look at this, I want your medical opinion," he beckoned and finally John gives in, joining his friend in his examination.

"Stab wound?" Sherlock asked, the doctor doesn't know why he's asking, the detective knows what a stab wound looks like, but he seems to be positively buzzing with excitement over the corpse, well at least he's smiling for once, John thinks.

"I'd say." John pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket and probed the injury for himself, after years of working with the detective he's become less sentimental about the bodies of victims, learning quickly that you can get more information hands on. As Sherlock had exclaimed to him many a time, 'no time for sentiments for the dead when your trying to find their killer John'.

"Hefty blade." John pulled his gloved fingers from the wound, they're now coated with dark congealed blood. "Serrated one side, a good two inches diameter and more than four to six in length. Looks like it was forced up and punctured either her major vessels to the heart or her renal artery. Whichever it is, she bled out quickly, wouldn't have felt much, lost consciousness very quickly."

"No signs of a struggle though." Sherlock was examining the woman's wrists and then neck with his magnifier.

"Doesn't look like it, does it," John agrees, looking around the room, the place is bare of all usual signs of living, no scatters of papers or magazine, no laundry or empty tea cups, there certainly hasn't been much activity here.

"The attacker left through the front door I would say, the lock is a Yale so it would have clicked locked upon the door closing, no signs of break in so far. We will have to check the rest of the house, but I would say she knew who did this to her."

"The mother, Mrs Egerton?" the doctor offers, a possibility.

"Doubt it. Her arthritis wouldn't have allowed her to inflict such a traumatic injury, besides, she doesn't seem the type."

"Doesn't seem the type?" John chuckled, "since when do you judge people on being a 'type' of person, I thought you were all about facts?"

Sherlock ignored his friend's statement. "How long since death do you think?" he asked, more out of courtesy than needing an answer from the doctor.

"Well, we'd have to get a core liver temperature but she's not completely rigour'd yet."

"So less than a day probably." Sherlock stood up and looked around the room, eagle eyed. "So whoever visited last night is likely to be her killer."

"Seems plausible." John looked to the walls and points to the photos hanging there. "She really loved those two boys didn't she?" A large number of photos - which to anyone else would look like family holiday snaps - are framed across the paintwork.

"Hmm." The detective doesn't look up, he's found a laptop and is now quickly typing into it, hacking through the password at lightning speed. "Why don't you check the rest of the house for signs of forced entry or clues." He perches down at a small dining table in the room.

John nodded in agreement and decides to start his investigation upstairs first, Sherlock would be a while sifting through the laptop at this rate. Once happy they could call the police out for an official investigation and SOCOs could gather more evidence properly, he doubted Yorkshire police would be so accommodating to the detectives help as the MET.

The doctor's inspection of upstairs reveals as thought, that the house was barely lived in, there was dust settling in both of the bedrooms and the bathroom looks to have had little use over the last few weeks either. John rummaged in the bedside drawers for any items of interest but found nothing except toiletries and spare clothes, it was clear the owner spent little time here. As John turns to leave he hears a large bang resonate throughout the house. He speeds to the top of the stairs before calling in a half whisper.

"Sherlock?"

The front door booms, the thing juddered on its hinges.

"Police!" Came from the other side.

"Christ." John began down the stairs. "Wait!" He shouted but the door suddenly gave into another bang, exploding inwards with shards of wood and glass, then there was carnage and noise. John has to hold his nerve as distant memories of war flood back into the forefront of his mind.

"Put your hands where I can see them!"

A taser was pointing up at the doctor and John freezes on the spot.

"Stop right there!" The police officer was wearing full riot gear, his eyes trained on the doctor and finger on the tigger of his weapon. John swallowed back the rising panic, he was not ready to be tasered again.

"Sir?" Another officer was in the living room doorway followed by another taser brandishing man.

"Oh, hello," John hears his friend's voice from inside the room.

"Put your hands where I can see them and get down on the ground," the policeman shouted.

"I don't have any weapons," Sherlock's calm voice replies, "in fact I'm doing you all a favour by finding out the killer of Miss Mansfield quicker than any of you fools will do so."

"Sherlock?" John shouted from the hallway, mindful that any sudden noise or movement might end in his own unsightly and painful tumble down the remaining steps. "Do what they say would you and stop being a cock."

"On the floor!" The weapon holder shouted in to the detective again.

"Really now?" Sherlock sounds exasperated, "if you'd just have a word with Lestrade at Scotland Yard he'll let you know what this is all about."

John knew it wasn't going to happen and he watched helplessly from his position on the stairs as the police advanced forwards into the room.

"Get down or I will discharge the taser!"

The doctor thinks that they were perhaps being a little heavy handed but considering there was also a dead body sitting in the room with Sherlock he isn't surprised they were being this cautious, especially since this force doesn't know them.

"Is this really necessary?" the detective sighed.

"Down! Now!"

John wasn't sure if the gun had been discharged or Sherlock had simply been wrestled to the floor but there was a loud thud followed by a moan of pain from his friend.

"Easy would you," John shouted, "he's still recovering from serious injury."

"Then perhaps he shouldn't be at a murder scene with you should he." What looked like the leading officer came to the bottom of the stairs. "Come on, down, slowly and put your hands forwards."

The doctor did as he was told and as he reached the last step a pair of handcuffs was snapped into place across his wrists.

"I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Are we clear?"

"Crystal." John looked the living room but his friend had yet to appear.

"Get him out of here!" The sergeant pushes John into another officer and he's frog marched out the front door.

"Get off me!" The sound of his friend's panicked voice could be heard behind.

The doctor craned his neck around, but there is still no sign of the younger man.

"Sherlock?" he shouted back to the house, faltering.

"Keep moving sir." The young lady pushed him along towards the waiting police car, "you would do well not to resist."

"Sherlock, don't fight them!"

He knew his words would fall on deaf ears.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: thanks to all readers and reviewers, the fandom certainly seems a little slow at the moment but thank you so much for all those regular followers I very much appreciate your support. This chapter is not meant to bash the police in anyway, apologise if it comes across this way. I have every admiration for what they do and have to deal with on a daily basis.**

 **Enjoy...**

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Chapter 6

When the car finally grinds to a halt outside the police station John's worry in the pit of his stomach is becoming overwhelming, he knows his friend will not bode well with being manhandled even more so by strangers. Right now he knows too well how delicate an emotional state his friend is in already, this was not what they needed right now.

"Come along Sir." The police woman is beckoning him out the car and he hadn't even realised.

John follows her silently into the building before being presented at the custody desk.

"Name?" The custody sergeant looks up from his computer, he looks tired and fed up with the endless supply of criminals presented to him, John wishes he can explain to him there circumstances but knows it will be of no use, so settles for being a good customer.

"John Hamish Watson." The doctor stands tall like he's being presented to his major in army. He's not afraid of authority.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Was at a crime scene with my companion. You assume I am involved in the murder of someone at that scene."

The sergeant frowns and types on his computer. "You're known to the metropolitan police force it seems, quite a list too." His brows raise up, "criminal damage, possession of fire arms on multiple accounts, obstructing police investigation, possession of a stolen motor vehicle." John smirks to himself, that was fun. He's certainly glad that he's not carrying his browning today. As his mind considers his and Sherlock's escapades the sounds of his friend's distressed voice filters into the room and he turns to the door which is quickly pushed open.

"Take it easy would you!" A shorter man than the detective is grappling with Sherlock's cuffs with difficultly.

Sherlock himself looks crazed. His eyes are wide with panic and he's staggering madly on his feet, hands shaking in the restraints behind his back.

"John!" he shouts questioningly, his eyes red rimmed and brows furrowed. The doctors hear leaps in his throat, this is bad, the last time his friend was in restraints like this was the time they had been captured and tortured at the hands of a mad man, with such a rocky recovery John was not in any way surprised his friend was freaking out.

"We need this one drug tested ASAP." Another officer pushes in through the door behind the detective looking flustered. "Get him in a cell now!" He points.

Sherlock struggles against his captors towards his friend but his pulled back roughly.

"Stop resisting!" The policeman pushes him backward, his feet trip and in a second he's on the floor.

"Get up." The men drag Sherlock's hands up and he lets out a shrill whimper when his arms and more worryingly still healing shoulder strains against the movement.

"Hey!" John shouts, unable to take it any longer, "he's got a shoulder injury and he's still recovering from and a fractured jaw! Please. He's got Asperger's, he's better with less restraint, he doesn't do well with strangers touching him." He isn't even sure why he's blurting this out so nonchalantly, it's not like he ever says anything like this in front of Sherlock, he's actually slightly appalled with himself for a second.

"Well perhaps you should have thought of that before killing someone." The officer shoots a clipped reply.

Emotions were becoming charged and John feels his anger bubbling beneath the surface.

"Stop it!" he shouts and has to be held back himself as they manhandle his friend further.

Sherlock let's out another groan of pain as he's wrenched from his uncomfortable position on floor and dragged along the corridor roughly.

"Cell eight please." The man behind the desk asks calmly, "I'll send the doctor into you in five."

"I am his doctor!" John is livid now, but he knows it will do him no good to kick off.

"That's nice, shall we finish this so you can calm down in a cell too?"

"No, I need a phone call. I need one now, I know I have the right to one." The doctor takes a long slow breath, "please." He finally says, trying to pacify the situation.

"As you wish" the policeman rolls his eyes, pulling up an old dial phone he places it on the desk. The man is probably used to this sort of behaviour, but little did he know who John was about to phone, because it certainly wasn't his mummy.

The phone rang only twice on the other end before it was picked up.

"Mycroft," John sighed, thankful the great man had answered.

"What's he done now?" The British government was clearly not impressed.

"We're at Harrogate police station, been arrested at a crime scene. Listen Mycroft, he's not looking so good right now, I need him out of here now or he's going have a meltdown or worse."

There was a long pause, in which the doctor thought that perhaps the man was either choosing his words wisely or calming himself to speak, the older Holmes had done this a lot recently.

"Consider it done doctor. Please take good care of my little brother. Police cells and Sherlock... well, let's just say they have quite a history." There is no blame in the man's voice, he knows the deal.

"Thank you!" John replaced the receiver and let out a long draw out breath, all he had to do now was wait and hope that Mycroft's men could hurry up with the correct channels and paper work, for now he would have to play the game.

John was booked in quickly, offered a legal representative which he kindly refused and was locked into cell ten. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse to be two up from his friend but he could hear the power struggle between the detective and the police continue on even after his time being booked in. John sat with his back against the door of the cell and his face buried into his knees, hoping to god this would end soon.

"Mr Holmes we need to take a saliva sample, it's ok. If you could just stay still for a moment. Is that okay?"

Nothing short of a whimper answered in return and John could only imagine the emotional state of his friend, he imagines this is going to set his recovery back weeks. After their recent kidnapping it had taken some days to calm his friend down even whilst still in hospital and partially sedated, the whole situation had brought out a side of the detective he had never seen before. Several comments from his brother had made him aware that it had been to do with his time away but John did not push the subject any further. They never spoke of this time, and Sherlock never mentioned it. It was no wonder that being restrained again, coupled with his synesthesia, and Asperger traits had clearly pushed the detective into some sort of panic like episode.

"Get off!" Sherlock shouted, "don't touch me!" His voice was quivering, and the doctor suspected it was his body shaking too.

God, why couldn't they just leave him alone.

"John!"

"I'm here Sherlock, I'm right here," he shouted back. He wanted to tell him to stay calm, but knew there was little point.

"You need to stay still so we can take your restraints off."

"No!"

John listened to the struggle wishing he couldn't. There was at least three or more officers in with his friend dealing with him.

"Stay still!"

"Stop fighting."

There was a thud followed by a moan, but not from the detective.

"I'll get the sergeant," a lady said, who sounded like the PC who had escorted John in. Footsteps passed by the doctor's cell door and more returned only minutes later before the door behind John was unlocked with a loud thunk, he was still on the floor as it opened.

"Doctor Watson." The custody sergeant stood before him. "We don't usually allow it, but perhaps you can be of assistance in calming your companion down."

John stood quickly and nodded silently, following the man two doors down to number eight. It was cracked ajar slightly and as they pulled the thing open the doctor was met with a sight he wished he had never seen.

Sherlock sprawled out on the floor, he was stripped of his shoes, coat, scarf, gloves and jacket and his shirt was half open, and his previously injured left side of his face was pressed into the hard concrete ground. His hands were still bound behind his back with both metal cuffs and now zip lock plastic cuffs too. One male officer had a knee heavily pushed hard into his back and another was holding down his legs down. His breaths were fast and shallow and eyes tightly closed against the outside world.

"Get off him," John commanded, "now."

"He did just assault one of my team, Mr Watson," the sergeant grumbled. "I don't take this kind of behaviour lightly. He will be charged accordingly."

"He's having a bloody panic attack! What exactly do you expect him to do?" John shot back angrily.

"Well, sort him out would you. Jones, Baker, get off the man."

Both the police officers backed up quickly but Sherlock made no move to get up.

It was now, when John approached him that he noticed as expected the detectives body shaking from head to toe.

"Do you have the keys and a cutter?"

John was handed both and he turned back to them, "Now give us some space would you."

He must have looked angry, because without a word the officers did. Disappearing from the cell before letting it close gently behind them but not locking it. It was likely they were watching from CCTV with a guard at the door.

"Bloody hell," the doctor exclaimed. "Sherlock I'm going to get these cuffs off ok, you need to stay still for a minute. It's only me."

John handled the cuffs but the move only made his friend lose it. Sherlock spun over and struggled against them. Crying out in pain whilst wreathing on the ground.

"Sherlock," John near shouted, "open your eyes and look at me."

Almost instantly his friend's eyes snapped open, wild an glazed, the doctor was taken aback by the dead gaze which seemed to look straight through him, unfocused and distant.

"It's me. It's John. It's okay, it's just me and you."

"John?" Sherlock's face morphed from terrified to despair, his features dropped and tears welled in his already puffy eyes. "What's going on?" Suddenly his panic, though not forgotten seemed to dispel slightly.

"We were arrested. Remember being at Miss Mansfield's house and finding her body?"

"I..." Sherlock frowned, "I don't know."

"It's alright. One step at a time," John sighed, "can I get those cuffs off you first?"

It took a moment for the detective to process this piece of information before he nodded slowly, sitting upright with a grunt he turned to allow his friend access to his hands.

John was thankful to see he had not caused any abrasions on his bony wrists and quickly removed both types of cuff. He did understand the police, they had to deal with violent criminals on a daily bases so it was no wonder they considered Sherlock the same as every other mad man who walked through the door spitting and shouting abuse at them. Except Sherlock was actually different, he hoped his brother would hurry up and get them released soon.

"Do you want to sit up on the mattress?" John pointed to the blue cushion which didn't really pass as any sort of bed. "It'll be warmer than the floor."

The detective relented and pulled himself up and onto the small shelf whilst John was thankful the officers had left them a couple of blankets. He pulled one around his best friend's still slightly quivering shoulders and laid the other over the man's lap.

"Try to take it easy okay."

The doctor pushed some of the stray curls from his friend's eyes affectionately, Sherlock winced back reflexively.

"Did they hurt you anywhere?" he asked gently.

"I don't remember," Sherlock replied shamefully, as the panic began to dissipate embarrassment was beginning to replace it. His cheekbones flushed with a tinge of pink.

"Don't worry, I'll check you over once we're out of here." John looked at the camera on the ceiling. "Mycroft is sorting this out, I don't think we'll be long."

"Hmm."

Sherlock's eyes slid closed and his head sunk towards his shoulder, he was spent. John could sympathise, whenever he suffered a PTSD episode it drained every shred of energy from his body and mind. Adding onto the fact that his friend was still not back to his healthy state meant he must have been more than exhausted.

"Why don't you take a nap until then?" John pulled his jacket off, surprised it hadn't been confiscated. He balled it up as a makeshift pillow and patted it. "Come on."

"Not tired," Sherlock mumbled.

"Liar."

The doctor gently pushed him back onto the small bed with little resistance. And before another word could be said the detective was sound asleep.

It was a good few hours later that the door of the cell drew open and John looked up bleary eyed. He must had dozed off, too. His neck complained at its angle wedged against the wall, he was on the floor next to Sherlock's still sleeping form.

"I've been ordered to release you." The sergeant did not look impressed, "I don't know who you bloody are but it's a joke if you ask me."

John stood and stretched, before turning to his friend, loathed to have to wake him. He gently tugged at the detective's shirt sleeve and he blinked his eyes open.

"Time to go now Sherlock," he said and the younger man pulled himself slowly upright with a stifled groan.

"Trust me," John addressed the policeman as they both headed out the door, "you'll be thankful when he finds the killer before you do."

"Whatever you say sir. I don't see a junkie catching any criminals anytime soon."

"What?" John rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the word catching him off guard.

The officer smiled. "I assumed you knew he tested positive for drugs?"

John swallowed hard, hoping suddenly that it was just the medications from last night.

"Well, considering he had oral morphine last night I would expect it to be a positive," he shot, defending his friend.

"Let's hope you're right." The sergeant handed John a form. "Just sign here would you." He pointed the space at the bottom of the discharge papers and John looked over them briefly. He held a second one out to Sherlock who signed it without question. "Your belongings are by the desk, I don't want to see either of you here again. Do you understand?"

"Understood," John said before his friend could speak. "Thank you." He smiled politely before catching up with Sherlock to collect their belongings.

Well, that was a complete waste of time.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: thanks as always to all readers and reviewers and those following the story. Just a reminder to anyone who is artisticly minded feel free (only if your inspired to) to draw/paint art from any of my stories, not asking anyone to but just putting it out there.**

 **Enjoy!**

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Chapter 7

When the part of them exit the police station there's a sleek black car waiting outside, the detective is not impressed but accepts the ride anyway. John insisted they head back to the hotel for now for a rest and regroup. Sherlock didn't complain, and this only served to send alarm bells ringing for the doctor.

In fact Sherlock remains mute the entire journey back to the Devonshire Fell, something which he is doing increasingly so for the past two days. The silence only proves to increase John's worry and the growing tension between them. But once reach their hotel room the silence finally cuts short.

"Are you okay?" The doctor asks.

"This is absurd John!" The detective throws his hands up when the door finally clicks closed behind them. "I am fine." He sat on the bed with a huff.

"Are you?" John's brows rise.

He wants to talk about the way Sherlock reacted in custody, about the clear fact he is suffering post traumatic stress from their original kidnapping, he really does. But right now there is only one thing on his mind and he needs to check, just to be sure. He quickly rummages in his medical bag wishing he hadn't when he comes out with half an empty blister pack of oromorph, confirming his worst nightmare. He held the packet out to his friend

"Fine enough to take an overdose of opioids overnight?!"

Sherlock didn't answer initially, he stared at the remaining drugs in the packet and rings his hands nervously, he can't lie this time, but tries anyway.

"I... I just saved them for later."

"No. You didn't," John scowled angrily, locking eyes with his friend's. "No wonder you were so chipper this morning, and even managed an entire cooked breakfast, why did I not see it. You were high as a bloody kite weren't you?" His voice raised up a couple of decibels.

"John, I can explain," Sherlock stuttered, "I didn't, I mean, I didn't mean to, you know, take them all."

The doctors face softened. "I know. But we should talk about this, any normal human being would be in a coma right now with that sort of dosage."

"We both know I'm not any normal human being." Sherlock breaks the gaze and looks at his shoes with an odd interest. "Honestly. It won't happen again."

"I care more about making sure you're ok right now." John puts the packet down and sits down beside his friend. "Exactly how much pain are you in?"

The detective pauses, hesitating. "I'm not sure," he finally whispers.

"I can work with that," the doctor smiles sadly. "Can I have a look at that shoulder again first?" he presses, "Please?"

Sherlock schools his face into indifference before lowering his coat from his shoulders slowly. He unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off with a hiss this time, it's like a rerun of the night before.

"Easy." John stands up and begins to examine his friend's shoulder, he is certain the police have pulled the joint roughly and aggravated the thing, even if they didn't mean to.

Gently placing one hand on the joint he uses the other to manoeuvre the limb slowly in several different directions checking ligaments and tendons.

The detective winces and as his arm is forced over his body he lets out a short whimper of pain, face twisting in agony.

"Sorry," the doctor apologises leaving the examination. "It looks like you've torn the ligaments in there, but I'd need to consult an othopod to get it looked at by a specialist."

John remembers that the doctors had warned this could have been an issue if the detective didn't rest correctly, or just as importantly, eat properly.

"No need." Sherlock pulls his arm gingerly into himself with a wince and rests it on his lap, this is the first time John has seen him actually show any real signs of pain for weeks now, despite knowing the man had been suffering, physically and clearly mentally too.

"You should really have it in a sling, I've got one..."

"No"

"Sherlock?" the doctor warns, "for once will you just do as you are told?" He folds his arms in defiance.

"I'm nearly through with this case John, just one more day and I'll relent to your ridiculous mothering. Please?" He pulls his eyes up in a pleading gaze which John knows he cannot refuse no matter how much he tries.

"Fine," the doctor sighs. "Have it your way. But once this is over I'm arranging an appointment and we're going to get this sorted, I'm not sure a physiotherapist is going to work out for you this time I'm afraid."

"Whatever."

"Let's get your temperature." John knows he will soon begin to wear on his friend's patience so chooses his things to check in order of importance.

"Okay." Sherlock is unusually placid when it comes to the next few minutes of John's exam.

"You've got a low grade fever." He frowns finally, "either the first stages of withdrawal or an infection somewhere. John pulls the drug pack back into his hands and counts the tablets out, making a mental note. "When was the last time you took any because you should take more?" he asks sadly, "we need to make sure you're well analgesed until I can get you to a doctor."'

"You are my doctor."

"Yes, and your doctor is telling you take pain killers right now. I can't see you taking a break from this case to let me take you in for an X-ray and bloods so pain relief it is." John offers the pack.

"I don't need it," the detective mumbles.

"Why, have you kept some back?" John asks, there's not a shred of accusation in his voice. "It's ok if you have."

"No," Sherlock yawns twice before continuing, "I'm not disappointing you again."

"Don't be a cock, I know you're in pain, there is no point in hiding it. Just take a couple for now?" he offers again.

"No."

"Sherlock!" This time he does sound annoyed. "This is not how it works, I'm your doctor remember."

"Like I said, you can mother me when this is over." The doesn't even look at the blister pack.

John grinds his teeth together in concern. "I've seen withdrawal Sherlock, you really don't want to go there." He realises what he's said after the words come out of his mouth and then swallows back the awkward feeling.

This time the detective does look up and says matter of factly. "Yes, John, I am aware of the body's response to lack of opium."

"Sorry." Now the doctor looks at his feet.

There's a long and pregnant pause between the pair of them, and eventually John turns to the kettle for answers. Tea solves everything.

Minutes later he passes his best friend a steaming hot cup of earl grey. Sherlock accepts it and a frown deepens across John's face when he sees the mug tremor in the detective's hands. As he sips his own tea across the room the doctor in John runs off a list of symptoms which will develop in the next few hours to days: agitation, epiphora, cold sweats, tremors, muscular pain, diarrhoea, nausea, vomiting, insomnia and increased anxiety. All of which John did not want to see his friend endure, he wasn't even sure right now his emaciated body could actually take it either. It makes him feel sick to the stomach.

What the hell was the idiot thinking?

A series of strong emotions passes through him, anger at Sherlock, guilt at himself not seeing it coming and great sadness, for if that bastard hadn't kidnapped them two months ago none of this would have happened in the first place.

"Stop thinking John, its deafening." The detective looks up from his phone in his hand and sighs.

"Sorry," the doctor apologises for the second time.

Sherlock continues looking through his phone until his face lights up.

"Bingo," he smiles.

"Found the killer?" the doctor asks.

"Almost."

"And?" John gives in.

"An elderly male border collie was presented to an out of hours veterinary clinic in Doncaster for acute collapse, three days ago." The detective shows his friend the screen of his phone but it's too small for John to make out the text on it. How Sherlock is getting this information he doesn't want to know.

"So?" he asked finally. "Border collies are not exactly the rarest of breeds, especially up here in this part of the country, plenty of farmers with working dogs."

"No," Sherlock smirks, "but what's the likelihood of that same veterinary practice ordering in a large batch of injectable potassium, just the next day?"

John scowls. "Supplying someone?"

"Out of hours hospitals need large stocks for sick animals, I'd say they were missing that stock and had to replace it. It was stolen during that very dogs visit the day before, I'd have to visit to find out for sure but we don't have time for that."

"We can go tomorrow?" he offers, "Maybe we should take a nap for the rest of the day before a late dinner?"

Sherlock cocks his head, giving the doctor a look which can only be described as exacerbated. "Really now, a nap, I'm not a grandad. And besides I thought I already took one at the police station?"

"Doesn't mean you can't have another."

The detective fists his hands as to hide the light tremors running through them.

"I. Am. Fine," he grounds out. "Really John, if you want to nap then feel free but I have somewhere to be." He grapples with his large belstaff and pulls it on with a very visible wince and a stifled groan.

"Fine." John's had enough. "Where are we going?" He grabs for the cars keys.

Sherlock smiles from ear to ear, "We're going to catch a killer John."

* * *

Orthopod - stand word for orthopaedic specialist/surgeon

Epiphora - excessive tear production


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: apologise it's a day late. Enjoy anyway. Shameless Sherlock whumping may well ensue.**

* * *

Chapter 8

"Where are we going?" John jumps into the seat of the hire car, he's impressed that Mycroft's men have managed to return it to the hotel so quickly.

"Did you bring your med kit and your gun with you?" Sherlock asks pushing his shaking hands between his knees as if to stop his friend from seeing them, but it's little use when the doctor has already aware of them.

"Do you think I'm going to need them?" He eyes the detective like a concerned parent, yet the idea of danger sends a bolt of adrenaline through him, making his muscles clench in both excitement and worry.

"Well did you?" Sherlock asks again.

"Yes."

"Good," he smiles, "keep them on you," he adds.

"You might also like to know I have the oromorph on me too. You know, if you fancied not being in pain or going into withdrawal and all that?" John is now fully facing his friend, glaring, eyebrows raised and head cocked to the side questioningly.

"No. Thank you." The detective smiles back, there are small beads of sweat beginning to glisten on his upper lip and forehead, he ignores it.

"Suit yourself," the doctor grumbles, "it's here if you change your mind at any point." He pats the front breast pocket of his parka, turning the key in the ignition of the car he quickly turns the heating on. The sun has dipped under the horizon and the temperatures are already plummeting. He hoped they weren't about to go gallivanting across the moors because the roads would be a death trap within a couple of hours.

Turns out they weren't going too far at all, and not long after John pulls into the car park of a garden centre. Sherlock had not paid privy to why they were there until now.

"So why here?" he asks.

"The collie, clearly the missing one, presented at the vets and had purple to black staining around the mouth."

"And?" John is actually getting rather tired of his friend's cryptic explanations now.

"And the notes the veterinary staff left said it looked like the dog had eaten grapes from what was stuck in its teeth. The owner didn't know what it was 'apparently', but the dog came in collapsed and started seizing, then fell into a coma before dying within an hour."

"And you don't think it was grapes?" John looked out across the car park to saw only one other car parked up, it was well past closing time for most shops and supermarkets in this part of the country.

"Not grapes no," Sherlock smirked, "they're highly toxic to dogs but don't cause fitting. "No, it was a more specific type of berry."

"Which is why we are here?"

"Well done you're catching on, next thing I know, you'll be doing my job for me." The detective replied sarcastically. He pushed the passenger door open and a blast of icy air filtered into the car.

"Not funny." John followed suit. "You do realise this place is closed?" He pointed to the main door of the shop, "must have closed at at least 4pm. We should come back in the morning."

"Since when do closing times denote when I visit?" Sherlock strode out across the old Tarmac, it was becoming crispy under foot. The dull street lamps made the place as seedy as a back street in Croydon in London's East end, not that that ever stopped him.

John rolled his eyes, giving up.

"So who took the dog?" He hurried after his friend.

Sherlock reached the front of the garden centre and quickly inspected the lock system on the automatic sliding doors.

"I'll know for certain once I confirm something."

"Really Sherlock? You know who it is but you won't tell me," the doctor glowered, "why won't you just let me help you?"

"I am letting you help me, you just won't like my plan." Sherlock produced two pins from his coat and began to pick the lock. "And you're going to help me search for a very specific plant."

There was a short pause before John spoke again, composing his annoyance he decided to ignore the statement, "So what are we looking for?" He dipped his voice to a mere whisper, aware that they were now 'doing crime.'

The lock clicked and the detective stowed his tools back inside his huge coat. He pulled the door open slightly, just enough to allow them both through before letting it slip closed.

"Atopa Belladonna," he said finally, quickly creeping through the tilled shop area. The lights were dimmed to only safety lighting it seemed and the huge green house adjacent to the indoor cafe and home shopping area was also in darkness. Eerie isles of plants caused twisted shadows to be cast across the glass windows, it made the doctor shudder.

John was not usually unnerved by much but this place seemed to give him the creeps already. "That's deadly nightshade right?" he whispered, he pulled out his phone, quickly typing into google to find an image of the plant.

"Yes," Sherlock motions down the greenhouse, "probably with the shrubs." He waved. "Take a look through this lot would you."

"Where are you going?" The doctor watched his friend take off to the left towards what looked like a second greenhouse.

"To search this one," he pointed, "problem?"

"Just not sure splitting up is a good idea?"

"Not scared of the dark are you, Captain?" Sherlock stumbled slightly, catching himself on a plant bed nearby on his bad arm, he let out a yelp.

"Nope," John answered, "More scared of what you're going to do to yourself in the pitch black right now." He folded his arms definitely. "Sure you can manage?" he asked.

The detective stuffed his now continually shaking hands into his coat pockets and turned with a dramatic sweep of his coat.

"Just meet me back here when you're done," he proclaims.

John watched him go nervously. The man's stride is off, he isn't sure if it's a limp or he's fighting off pain but it's causing him to be slightly off gait, either way, it worries John no end.

The doctor checks his phone quickly, noting the time.

The sun was now well and truly set and the shop is gloomy and beginning to get cold, even in this coat John can feel a cold iced draft coming in from under the doorways. It was clear that the last employee had left the place sometime ago, no late night stocking tonight, he didn't blame them either, too cold for moving pots and soil around. He inhaled deeply and set to searching the isles for the plant in question.

With his phone as his only light source it's very slow going, checking each shrub and flower, and having to search through some labels to check the identity's of some. He really was not au fait to botany, and it was snails pace. He wasn't sure why Sherlock didn't know where the plant was likely to be kept in the endless lines of them, to him it felt like no plant had a resemblance to the next and they seemed to be in no order whatsoever. Couldn't they just be alphabetically arranged?

Fifteen minutes later, John reached the final row and looked out across the outside part of the centre. He could barely make out the other side of the courtyard some distance over, but there was a small collection of weak solar lights gleaming in the corner. It was then he noticed the unmistakable silhouette of his best friend. The long coat flapping in the very light breeze and famous collar sticking upwards.

How the hell had he got out there? Probably the same way they had got in he mused.

"Meet me back here my ass, bloody prat, can he not just wait for me. He probably knows where the fricking plant is and is just timing me to see how slow I am." John grumbled, heading back down the line of plants slowly, bending in to some checking the names as he went. When finally, his patience wearing thinner than ice, the small plant was found. The black berries glistened against his phone light. It was well hidden behind other plants but John managed to spot it.

"Thank Christ," the doctor moaned, he wasn't sure he could take looking through leaves and flowers for the another minute. He quickly inspected the small plant, confirming his friend's suspicions that most of the berries had been harvested from it, leaving many of the stems bare.

He pulled the phone off the torch function and decided to call his friend instead of go searching for him, he didn't actually fancy being spooked out by the detective who was better at moving around in silence than a door mouse.

The phone connected after the third ring.

"Yes."

"Found it." John smiled, "in the first greenhouse, where are you?"

The detective didn't answer, there was a short grunt followed by a thud and what sounded like a large pot smashing onto pavement. The phone must have been dropped because it made a terrible shrill crackling in the doctors ears as it skittered along the floor.

"Sherlock?" John raced to the glass to look out again, certain he must have still been outside. "Sherlock can you hear me?"

There was only silence and an annoying buzzing on the end of the line before it went dead.

"Shit." The doctor squinted out into the darkness. "You bloody cock. Why could you not just wait for me, because of course now you've passed out in the freezing cold."

John sprinted around into the second greenhouse in search of an exit to the courtyard.

He reached the doorway, coming to a grinding halt by the glass. He tried to pull the doors apart but found the thing stuck closed and obviously locked. He pressed his head against the glass he cupped his hands around his forehead in the hope to see better through the glaze, but the reflections made it hard going.

"For goodness sake." He moved to the windows of the greenhouse, and when finally as he squinted so hard his head pounded in protest he saw them. Two unmistakable shoes pointing out from behind a collection of scrubs. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was conscious or not but by the lack of movement he suspected not.

"Bloody cock"

Well this is a bit not good.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: thanks so much to all those following and supporting me. As I say first case fic idea so might not be the greatest but I hope it doesn't disappoint too much. Enjoy the whump and as always constructive criticism always welcome.**

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Chapter 9

"J'hn..." the detective's tongue does not seem to cooperate with his mind at the moment and there is a heavy pounding at the back of his head. He can feel a sticky trickle of what he can only guess is blood behind his right ear and sliding down his neck. Finally, after what seems like hours but more likely to only be seconds he manages to crack his eyes open. Not that there is any use in this as the area around him is dull and hazy and dark and for a moment he can see very little.

Sherlock groaned, he reached out uselessly towards his phone just ahead of him on the stone pathway. Despite his blurred vision in the dull lighting from the solar lamps he can see the screen is heavily cracked and it's unlikely to be working but he tries none the less.

He attempts to crawl forwards but the vertigo hits hard and with another groan he squeezes his eyes closed to stop the rising dizziness and nausea from intensifying.

When he opens them again there's a boot standing directly over his mobile, and it was not his friend's either. He tries to look up but his neck feels too weak to allow it. A fresh dribble of blood connects with his shirt collar and he can feel it congeal there.

God. Did he really have concussion again? John was going to kill him.

"I don't think you'll be needing this anymore, do you Mr Holmes?" The voice above him sounded like deafening thunder in his ears.

"Of course," he replied, pulling his arms back to push himself upright. He shakes madly and curses as his body betrays him and he collides back with the freezing ground below.

"I wouldn't bother, I hit you pretty hard." There's a short laugh, "you're only going to end up there in a minute anyway."

"What?"

"You mean you don't know why I'm here?" Now a bright torch beam is shone directly in his face and the detective grimaces at the light. "I thought you were the great Sherlock Holmes. I've read all about you, can't you deduce me?"

"Terrific." This time his voice slurs and he sighs at the sound of it. "Another doting fan."

"Of course I'm a fan, I've read your website, I was so excited to hear you were coming. I can't believe I convinced her to call on you, I was hoping for a challenge."

There's a pause and Sherlock can hear an annoying buzzing at the back of his head, adding to the throbbing pain there.

Was it there before?

He tries to orient himself up again and with a moan of pain he manages to pull his feet under himself and slump against the nearest flower bed display haphazardly. He hates that his body is betraying him right now, literally as weak as a kitten, he can barely move his limbs which feel as heavy as lead.

"Samuel Egerton," he said disjointedly before looking up in the darkness and squinting to confirm his deduction.

The younger brother stood there, large boots, military style combat trousers and a heavy winter coat. He was smiling with a garish grin.

"I knew you'd come here eventually. Didn't think you'd work it out quite so quickly mind." The young man bent down, showing his teeth. "The arrest for suspected murder was quite amusing I have to say."

"Is that all this is, for your amusement?" Sherlock took a long gulp of air to force back the nausea again.

"Oh no. Much more fun than that."

The detective's eyes drift involuntarily closed for a second, but a familiar clunk of metal sends them wide again in panic just in time to see his wrist pulled into the other and a pair of handcuffs secured in place.

Not again.

He needs to stay calm!

But his subconscious fails him and his breaths hitch slightly. A moan escapes his throat uselessly, he'd forgotten his shoulder and the unbearable pain radiating from it, his pounding head seems to have taken over the majority of his thoughts for the time being.

"What do you want?" he finally managed to say.

"You're in a bit of a pickle Mr Holmes, aren't you?"

Sherlock grits his teeth and forces himself to sit up, pulling against the cuffs they clink, the sound going straight through him.

"Where's that side kick of yours?" Sam pulls off a small shoulder bag and places it on the ground, Sherlock hadn't even noticed it until now, his mind is struggling to keep up and is slowly deducing the scene.

"Don't know. Came alone." Another obvious slur in speech, the detective curses inwardly.

Stupid transport.

"Huh. You don't sound so good." The man smiled again but the detective's vision is swimming before him and he can hardly see it in the darkness.

"Well seeing as you decided to knock me out with a large terracotta pot, what do you expect?" He bites back with a stifled moan pointing with shaking hands to the pot. It's on the pathway and he's spotted it even though he can hardly make out his attackers face. The thing is in pieces and scattered, he considers if his thick skull would have held up to the material and decides to perhaps let John make that decision later.

"Are you sure your doctor friend isn't here?"

"Call him. He's not here." Sherlock squinted into the darkness, he knows the door to the outside firmly locked itself after him and the doctor was no lock picker. He approximates it will take John eight minutes to begin to worry and start looking for him or calling for backup, but a lot can happen in eight minutes, and Lestrade certainly isn't just down the road to help out. He was alone.

"Whatever. I see I haven't completely rendered you dumb... yet. I was hoping I would get a chance to hear one of your deductions, I've heard all about them."

Sherlock doesn't answer, he furrows his brows and considers the other man.

"Of course I need to check you're not recording our conversation first."

"Why?" this time he does speak, "worried about what I'm going to say?" He smirked but pain shoots down his old jaw fracture site and his face quickly stops moving. He can feel his pulse racing and he's not sure why, pain or anxiety, he can't tell.

"If you're as good as you say you are, you'll know this was going to happen anyway?" The attacker starts to pull at the detective's famous coat and Sherlock reels back. "Stay still would you."

He doesn't listen to the statement, he fidgets weakly out of the man's grasp several times, horrified by how futile his body is being right now. How can he be so powerless to barely move, can head trauma really cause this much disability?

Sam's patience runs out in seconds and he grabs the other man's shoulder tightly and slams him backward into the masonry behind him.

Unable to hold back, Sherlock lets out a howl of pain, his eyes darkening suddenly from the agony. His head lolls forwards and down and he can feel a fresh flow of warm blood from his wound, this time streaming down in front of his ear and collecting along his jaw line. How much blood has he actually lost?

"Open your eyes, don't be useless git, I want you to watch."

The detective is shaken by his coat and he's not sure if he's just blacked out for a few seconds or even a few minutes, but his eyes blink open.

"Watch... what?" Sherlock is running low on his own patience since his head feels like it's splitting in two from the back to the front. Even in the dim light it hurts to have his eyes open. The cold from the frozen ground is beginning to seep up through his trousers now and he starts to shiver from it.

"Your murder, of course." Sam smiled, pulls his bag open and begins rummaging in it.

He brings out a large syringe and needle, then he opens the packets and connects them together.

"Man like yourself likes a good murder scene, what better way to enjoy it than be the corpse yourself?"

"That would be very adventurous of you." Sherlock's head rolls sideways and he catches himself drifting, pulling himself back to consciousness quickly. Now is not the time.

He needs to stay awake, this is important.

"Why?"

"Because you've worked it out of course."

A couple of glass vials appear from the bag and the man snaps them open, and begins drawing up the liquid from them.

"You're lucky I kept back some of this, otherwise your death could have been a whole lot more messy."

"Like Elizabeth Mansfield," Sherlock slurs.

A chuckle, "Exactly."

A large hunting knife appears from the bag then, strategically placed well from Sherlock's grasp.

"But we can always revert to that if you don't sit still?" the younger man warns. "Stupid women should have butted out, just like you should have."

"Dull." Sherlock rolls his eyes and regrets it instantly.

"Let's hear you deduce me then?" Sam pulls one of the detective's hands to him.

Sherlock couldn't even struggle now, he's concentrating too hard on not passing out, his vision swimming madly.

The detective takes one long breath, trying to ignore the cold feeling of the alcohol swab being applied to the back of his hand.

"You're going to inject me with potassium, just like you did your brother, except half of your brother's dose went outside the vein so you didn't kill him instantly."

"Shame that, he was laying on his arms whilst asleep so had to use his neck. I won't be making that mistake again."

Samuel pulls a head torch out the bag and places it on, looking down so that light is directly on the back of the detective's hand, he's searching for a vein. "Go on."

"You wanted to kill him because of an old family feud, suspect something to do with your father, he left more money to your brother because he was his actual son. Not like you, the fatherless son, the outsider as always. You took the dog to get hold of the potassium in the first place, thought you were being clever. You probably took it because your brother loves the thing dearly."

"Stupid dog, will follow anyone out the house."

"Am I right?"

"My brother is an arsehole, got himself into law school the golden child!" Sam sneers, "mummies boy never can put a foot wrong, and yes I don't know where my father is, the bastard left my mother."

Sherlock smiles at the thought, oddly missing his own brother in that moment.

He continues, "You poisoned the dog with belladonna berries you got from here, rushed it to a vets but not a local one so you weren't registered or recognised. The dog was so ill it had to be rushed out the back for emergency care, which gave you enough time to break into the pharmacy of the hospital and steal as much potassium as you wanted, their entire stock by the looks of it."

Another vial was drawn up, clearly the murderer has decided one vial is not enough for his doing. "Need to be sure of these things," he smirked this time.

"Your little scenario didn't go to plan though, you missed your brother's vein, you certainly have never been trained to injected before, going by the way your holding that." Sherlock watches him with interest as he holds the syringe and vial awkwardly. "Your old nanny of course saw what you were doing and tried to suck the drug back out Matthew's blood, not sure why, it would have been useless. And since she saw you she couldn't be around for long, you didn't plan that part happening. But you also knew she wouldn't snitch to the police which gave you time to mull over the idea, you cared about her. But you had to dispatch her as soon as you found out I was going to speak to her. Which is a shame because you actually called me here to show off to me, thought I couldn't work out your smart little plan didn't you. It was too late, John and I found her body and I deduced who had done it. Long hunting knife. Then there's you, who clearly loves to go out for a weekend to kill innocent animals as sport."

"You're good aren't you?" Sam pulls the cap off the needle with his teeth.

"I'm not the only consulting detective in the world for no reason."

"Not for long."

Sherlock flinches and tries to pull away, but he's still too weaken to barely move as he feels the needle slip into under his skin and into his vein, a burning tingling sensation travels up his arm and his makes his muscles seize in pain.

"Stay fucking still would you."

The man pushes the plunger of the syringe quicker and the detective begins to sag dramatically, sudden extreme weakness washing through him.

"No, stay upright you idiot."

Sherlock's jaw shudders and he lets out an abhorrent moan before collapsing sideways and onto the freezing ground.

The burning spreads across his torso and down his other arm and then legs. His limbs are suddenly useless, paralysed and heavy and he can feel his heart slow considerably in his chest. Bile rises quickly to the back of his throat and he weakly manages to turn his head enough to not aspirate on his own vomit.

"Fucking gross." The younger man bends over him. He grabs for the detective's other hand, clearly having lost the vein in the first and the detective barely feels the second bite of the needle, his body feels somewhat numbed now.

"Quick not John now." Sherlock strings out several jumbled words and then gives an involuntary jerk and cries out. His other arm is now burning unbearably, and he weakly looks down to check it isn't actually physically on fire because right now it certainly feels that way. He inhales small sharp breaths between whimpers of pain and incomprehensible words.

"What the hell are you saying?" Sam pulls the empty syringe and needle from the detective's skin, not caring that the man now bleeds from his venapuncture site profusely.

"Pain... just... time to. Struh, on," Sherlock winces and shakes. He's practically paralysed from head to toe now and so weak he can barely breath. He stares listless up at the clear night sky above, littered with bright stars, it's so dark the milky way is visible across its vast blackness and for a moment he considers this not a bad view to be someone's last.

The younger man sits back on his feet and laughs. "Goodbye Mr Holmes."

Sherlock cries out, body shuddering, pain coursing through him, but he doesn't even know where he hurts anymore, his entire body is agony. As the darkness pulls at the edges of his mind he tried to shout again.

"John?" he whimpers.

His captor laughs, unlocking the restraints from the detectives wrists.

"Your useless friend isn't coming."

The detective moans, raising his weak voice to shout of pain.

"Soemac nacitav," he manages before finally going still.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: thank you so much to all reviewers and followers. Love you all! Enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter 10

"Soemac nacitav."

John Watson hears these two jumbled words and knows exactly what they are, the backwards trigger words 'Vatican Cameos'. In a second he bursts from his hiding spot and into the horrifying scene before him. How could he have been so foolish to listen to his friend.

Sherlock Holmes is flat on his back, jaw slack, he's staring unseeingly to the clear skies above, the dead look in his eyes makes the doctor want to vomit.

He's too late.

Still kneeling before his best friend is Sam Egerton, brother of Matthew and murderer of the nanny and now consulting detective. John feels anger rise in milliseconds, grabbing for his pistol in a flash as the man pulls a large knife out towards him.

"Don't you fucking move!" John tries not to look at his friend's motionless form and concentrates on the task at hand.

Priority one neutralise the danger then give medical aid.

The younger man pays no heed to the doctor and with one last attempt lunges up and for John. He doesn't reach the doctor as the gun discharges and the Sam crumples into a heap shrieking in pain from his gunshot to the hip, he would not be walking for sometime. The doctors perfectly placed shot has made sure of that one, not life threatening but potentially life changing and absolute agony.

As fast as he can, John grabs the fallen knife and steps over the man, sure to giving him a kick as he goes.

"And don't get up again," he growls, not surprised that the man is silenced by his agony. John is thankful he far enough out of reach of his best friend, the last thing he wanted was him anywhere near Sherlock's body.

The doctor discards the knife into the flower bed as he falls quickly to his knees beside his best friend. "Oh Jesus no."

He's certain the detective is deceased, he's seen the dead look in someone's eyes like this before. Placing two fingers on his friend's carotid artery a fluttering of extremely slow and irregular pulses make tears spring into his eyes, the rate must only be around 30 to 40 but it's there.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock?" He gently pats the detective's cheeks, "Sherlock come on, stay with me now, helps coming, wake up."

"... John?" Finally a weak barely audible voice sounds. "I..."

The doctor cradles his friend's head and pulls him up to embrace him.

"Dear god. I thought you were gone." Medical assessment suddenly forgotten. "What the hell has he done to you?"

Body still somewhat paralysed Sherlock's eyes gaze down to the discarded vials and syringe on the ground, not very visible in the darkness.

John sweeps one into his hand and reads the contents.

"Fuck." His eyes widening in panic, suddenly also aware of the fresh blood on his palm from Sherlock's head wound. "Shit."

"Coat," the detective breaths, eyes sliding closed.

"No, stay awake." John is cradling his head again, "Sherlock. Please, not after all this I can't lose you again, come on."

"Pocket," he whispers, barely audible and John suddenly cottons on.

He buries one hand into his friend's pocket and comes out with two vials, one looks to be smashed and he reads the label.

'Sodium bicarbonate for injection.'

"You're a bloody cock." The doctor gently allows his friend back to the cold ground, quickly glancing up he finds their murderer now unconscious but he doesn't care if the bastard is dead or alive.

He's sent for one ambulance already but Sherlock would take priority right now, he would be sure of it.

John pulls his medical kit out and turns his phone torch on, balancing the thing on the wall of the raised plant bed so he can see more of the scene and his friend before him.

With shaking hands he pulls out a new needle and syringe then draws up an entire vial. He tries to draw up as much as possible from the partially smashed one, cursing as less than half is salvageable.

"Christ," he swears again, finding one of Sherlock's hands deeply bruised and bleeding from the injection and the second red and swollen with what looks like an injection of potassium outside the vein, the skin is angry and reacting to the acidic solution.

John pulls one arm out Sherlock's coat, his heart skips several beats when he realises the detective has passed out, eyes closed. He's lifeless and John has to check for a pulse again to convince himself his friend is alive.

"Just hang on a second mate," he tries to talk but his voice is now shaking madly.

Stay calm John Watson, you can do this, he says internally.

Taking one deep breath, he cuts Sherlock's expensive jacket and shirt from wrist to elbow, ripping the rest. He searches frantically for a vein finding his friend's vascular system has shut down and veins all but disappearing from view. He tightens a quick tourniquet over the detective's upper arm and tries again.

"For God sake, come on."

The doctor pokes inside his friend's elbow, pressing gently for a vein but finding none, but it's no use, his friend needs this injection to combat the catastrophic acidosis which is currently ranging war through his veins.

John pushes he needle under the skin, blindly searching out the vessel until finally there is a small flash back of blood in his hub. He releases the tourniquet and injects as swiftly as he can without the worry of causing undo side effects.

But Sherlock suffers them none the less. As John almost finishes the dose, he tries to time to a slow infusion but he knows he is probably going too fast and his friend's body starts to twitch and he lets out a moan.

Once done with the drug John slides his friend's upper body onto his knees and cradles him gently as the man's body struggles to keep up with the changes in metabolic PH.

Sherlock's eyes peel open slowly and he stares up at his friend listlessly, his body gives occasional convulsions and his breathing has slowed to an almost alarming rate, his transport doing its best to correct the imbalances going on in his blood stream.

"Got anymore?" John asks calmly whilst monitoring the detectives pulse.

There is no answer, Sherlock only stares upwards listlessly, the doctor isn't even sure he's actually conscious of anything right now.

"Where the hell did you get those vials from in the first place?" he cries, an involuntary steady stream of tears are now slowly making their way down his cheeks, chilling them in the cold icy air.

Hold it together Watson, now is not the time for emotions.

John tries not to think about the sluggish warm damp trickle of blood dribbling its way through his fingers as he supports the back of Sherlock's head. The dark curls are soaked through and sticky from the flow. The smashed pot makes the doctor fill with dread from the thought of a potential fractured skull. But no, not right now, right now he needs to keep his friend alive until more help arrives, he could do nothing for a cranial fracture right now if there was in fact one as he highly suspects.

"Sherlock can you speak to me?" he asks firmly, "come on, tell me something obnoxious." He tries for a GCS reading instead, to inform the medics when they arrive.

There's no answer, so he tries again.

"Sherlock?"

"John." The voice is weak and terribly slurred but it's a start. The younger man's body jerks and he cries out against the pain it causes.

"It's okay."

"I think I'm dying," Sherlock manages to garble. John grimaces at the words and the state of his friend's slurring speech.

This was a bit not good.

"No, you're not."

The doctor takes a pulse, trying not to panic at the feel of it, arrhythmic, weak and all over the place. It's no wonder Sherlock is feeling so ill, his body is struggling to keep up with the change in blood electrolyte balance and John knows this is risking all sorts of side effects including fatal heart rhythms.

"Shhh, take it steady, helps on the way I promise." John curses himself internally. He had promised Sherlock he would stay hidden until he called for help but no matter what he wished to god he had arrived earlier.

How could he have been so stupid!

"Why did you tell me to hide! You Berk!" He lets out an growl, "why didn't I know better than to wait until now!" He's livid.

* * *

 ** _Minutes earlier._**

"Jesus." John rounds on the corner of the garden centre plant display to find his friend flat on his front, he's not certain that the man hasn't just passed out from the cold and exhaustion but the smashed terracotta pot makes him think otherwise. "Sherlock can you hear me?" How could it have taken him so long to pick the damn lock, he really needed to get the detective to show him how to do it properly again.

He checks for a pulse happy to find a steady one but curses.

"Bloody hell."

He pulls his phone out to dial for help but a mumble from his friend puts him off.

"Don't," Sherlock wheezes, "Not yet."

"What?" John is on his knees now and his face almost on the floor looking at the detective closely for signs of consciousness.

"Hey can you hear me?" He gently pulls one of Sherlock's eyelids back and a groan replies to his action.

"Open your eyes for me?"

"Do stop talking now and listen," Sherlock's voice is clear as day, it's as if suddenly he's fully awake and it takes John aback.

"What..."

"Listen carefully right now."

The detective opens his eyes to cracks and brings his hand up to cup at the base of his skull in a grimace. "I need to be quick because he's coming back."

"Who?" John quickly does a 360 of the surrounding area, not that he can see much except the pitch blackness of the night.

"The suspect, he's gone for his bag of supplies he needs from his car, I was earlier than he expected so he had to improvise, but looks like the pot had it coming anyway."

"You're concussed, we're getting you to hospital right now."

John ignores him and starts to dial, only to have his mobile slapped out his grasp quickly. John is taken by surprise, Sherlock's eyes are now wide and focused on him.

"Are you listening to me or not?" The detective gulps back and The doctor suspects he is feeling nauseous. "I need you to get into the shed and get recording." A shaky hand holds out a small recording devise. John isn't sure where he's got the thing from but takes it anyway and looks over as Sherlock points forwards. There, not five yards ahead is a small wooden shed more like cupboard.

"Your suffering a severe head injury."

"He barely hit me." Sherlock scoffs, "do stop being so dramatic. Get in and don't come out until I tell you to. Don't call the police yet."

"I don't understand?" John looks to his phone then his friend and then the shed.

"It doesn't take much," Sherlock moans out, as another wave of pain hits him. "Just get in and promise me you won't come out until I give you the signal."

"What signal?" John gives in to his better judgement and collects his phone from the cold pavement, noticing Sherlock's own just ahead and smashed.

"You'll know. Just don't come out before. Just promise John, otherwise we'll never catch him"

"What?"

"Get in, he's coming back." Sherlock waves weakly. "Go!"

Something in the pit of the doctor's stomach says whatever plan his friend had was not good but he goes anyway, against better judgement, for he also knows that in the end they are here to catch a murderer.

He finds the shed open, quickly jamming himself inside he turns his phone back light on and places the recording device down by the crack of the wooden door. He quickly sends out a text to the only person he knows can get help to them quickly - Mycroft. Although it is possible to text the emergency services and he'd registered long ago he trusts that the older Holmes brother will know how to proceed with the situation and probably get help here quicker than anyone else. The message is simple. 'Urgent help needed, Sherlock injured, suspect in play. Twin locks Harden centre, now. JW.'

Be damned what Sherlock wanted, when this is over they would need help, and not just the police, Sherlock's head injury was not something to disregard.

Within seconds he hears a set of footsteps on the slightly gravelled pathway.

* * *

 ** _Present time._**

John wishes he had jumped out of his hiding spot when he had first heard the murderer approach, yet somehow he has managed to let the whole scenario run out before him and his friend's life is now in serious danger because he had promised his friend on first finding him that he would stay hidden. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" He finally snaps.

"John."

"You planned this all along didn't you, just to get a confession, whilst it listened to it. Christ you moron! You brought the sodium bicarbonate because you knew what he was going to do, didn't you?" The doctor raises his voice, looking down to his perplexed friend. Sherlock is shuddering and smiling.

"John..."

"This isn't bloody funny. You could fucking die, don't you get it?!" He's furious, its then he realises that his friend isn't actually smiling, he's holding back a silent cry of pain.

"J..n.." Sherlock stammers.

"What is it?" His heart suddenly plummets in his chest, panic rising in his throat at the sound of his friend's weaken voice.

"I think I'm going to have a seizure," Sherlock says quickly. Then he groans, gripping tightly to the doctor's coat all of a sudden.

"No you're not, you're panicking. It's okay," John soothes. He cups his friend's cheek gently but to his horror Sherlock's eyes roll upwards and his body begins to stiffen, as ever, the detective is rarely wrong.

"Alright," the doctor says calmly. "Easy now."

Careful, not to do more harm, he slowly pushes his friend onto his side as Sherlock's body completely gives out to uncontrolled jerking. The detective's arms have bent slightly and hands fisted tightly. The awful sounds of strained useless breaths through ridged clamped teeth makes John turn his head away momentarily, he hated seeing someone seize. Sherlock's brain was short circuiting and he was at total mercy of it now, and the doctor couldn't help but let himself begin to panic more.

Where the hell was that help!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** **Thank you for all my followers and reviews this year. Your all awesome! Very special shout out to TheGracefulBlueCat and her continual support and friendship, she helps to keep me sane.**

 **Also to avid followers of this story (I hope this hasn't been too much of a disappointment) - m-j98, librarywitch, wynnleaf, Paula a rushing and all those who follow but don't review. merry Christmas all and in Mucrofts voice I say 'that got its bast 2 o'clock already'. : ) Enjoy...**

* * *

Chapter 11

It was as if the world had stopped for John Watson, nothing else around him could be seen or heard except his convulsing friend before him. The murderer, or in this case the man who had attempted to murder the Great Sherlock Holmes groaned out in agony, half conscious only a couple of meters away, but John didn't hear him for the time being.

"Shit." The doctor pulled out his watch, cursing as he could hardly see the dial to time the seizure.

What if he had caused this?

What if he's given too much sodium, sent his friend's body into alkalosis?

He doesn't have a blood machine to test Sherlock's blood to see what his levels are and titrate the dose correctly.

What if he's caused such a sudden PH change in his friend's cerebral spinal fluid he's caused intracranial haemorrhage, he's sure he's read this somewhere, hasn't he?

What if the detective is suffering irreversible brain damage right now? What if the terracotta pot has fractured his skull?

"Damn it!" Two minutes, he is now certain the second hand has been around the face of the clock twice but he is actually not even sure he is seeing straight right now, the level of adrenaline racing the doctor's veins is almost blinding.

"Come on Sherlock?" John offered, knowing too well his friend was unable to hear a word he is saying.

"Ahaha," a choked laugh came from Sam, and this time John did hear him.

"Seems the Great detective has finally met his match," he said with a strangled cry of pain.

"Like you've met yours?" John snarled, "One more word from you, and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your brain!"

There is only silence in return to this, the criminal seems to have passed out again.

Except there isn't complete silence.

Sherlock's feet are kicking up the gravel, violently. There's a small dribble of frothy saliva making its way from his mouth and John is doing his best to cushion his friend's head from the ground, but his hands are scraping against the rough stony surface, shredding the delicate skin on his knuckles.

He hates this, God when will this end?

Three minutes.

"For god sakes!" John tried to keep his voice low. "Where the fuck are they?"

This is Yorkshire he remembers, ambulance services are not a mere couple of miles away like London.

"Please stop," he whispered to no one but himself.

He can feel the heat radiating from the detectives body now, his muscular contractions causing excess heat generation. John gently pulls one arm from the man's giant coat, pleased that it slips through without issue. He surprises himself by managing the buttons on his friend's jacket and then shirt one handed, pulling them both open to allow Sherlock's now burning skin to be exposed to the cold night air.

Four minutes.

John knows this is getting serious. If this goes on for more than five minutes the risks of complications increase exponentially.

Hyperthermia, hypoglycaemia, hypoxia, aspiration pneumonia, irreversible brain damage, pulmonary oedema, dehydration, heart attack. His medical brain runs through each scenario.

Sherlock's breathing pattern changes, he's gasping uselessly, and even in poor lighting of his phone John is certain the man's lips are turning an awful shade of blue.

Five minutes.

"Sherlock?" he tried uselessly, "Dear God, please stop this now." He knows his pleas are useless.

The detective choked, his unconscious body struggling for a decent breath through his constricted and seized airways.

For several long seconds he stops breathing altogether.

"Jesus." John pressed his fingers into his best friend's neck, "Come on mate."

Finally, Sherlock takes a long and strained grasp, wheezing loudly but his shaking does not relent.

John feels completely helpless. There was nothing he can do, he wished they were in London, wished the nearest hospital or medical aid was only minutes away. Even at 221B he had supplies which could halt Sherlock's unrelenting seizure.

Right now there was nothing he can do but wait.

For several long seconds John closed his eyes and prayed, he was not a religious man, never has been, but right now he prayed help would come soon.

By the time the doctor opened his bleary eyes again he spotted several figures heading towards them.

The familiar reflective jackets of both police and paramedics.

John let out a long exhale in relief, "Thank Christ!"

The medics had barely made it to them before he started rattling off his medical handover of his best friend.

"Sherlock Holmes, 38 year old male currently recovering from major injuries and withdrawing from prescribed opioids, has a history of substance abuse." He grimaces for a moment and carries on, "the suspect attacked him with a pot, he has sustained blunt force trauma to the occipital lobe and has some moderate haemorrhage. I'm uncertain if there is a fracture to the skull. I haven't had time to assess the wound. He was injected with potassium chloride intravenously into his right hand but it looks like some has gone extra vascular and there is profound swelling and local inflammation, the second hand has some minor phlebitis and reaction. He was collapsed when I found him, bradycardic and pronounced arrhythmia."

John bit his lip, knowing the next part could result in being more than just black marked as a medical professional, but he knew this was important.

"I injected him with sodium bicarbonate, approximately 600mg, but this may have been too fast. He began to seize five minutes ago but has not come out of it since, vascular access is going to be difficult, his circulation is shut down and I struggled with a median cubital vein."

"Doctor?" one medic, a young petit blond female, asked quickly, whilst the other began to open and search inside the medical bag.

"Doctor John Watson." John half smiled, this was not really the time for introductions right now.

Sherlock let out another gargling strained breath, choking on his saliva, aspiration was becoming a real risk. John hadn't even realised the older male paramedic had began to undo the detective's trousers.

He knew though, that with no IV line there was one other good route for diazepam to go. No time for niceties now, this was getting serious and John knew the quickest route to get diazepam into his friend was not exactly the most dignified either, but the rectal route was quick, effective and would do the job.

Seconds later the relentless twitching began to dissipate.

The tension in John's body which he didn't even realise was there began to ease too, but his doctor's mind is still working.

"We need to get a line in," he exclaimed. "Saphenous is probably best in this case."

"We've got this doctor."

John then realised that the second medic actually has his friend's shoe and sock off and is swabbing the inside of Sherlock's ankle and foot in search of a vein.

"You'll need to give him more sedatives, he's got a high tolerance to drugs, either he'll seizure again or if he comes round he's not going to be easy to handle, trust me."

Both paramedics shared a passing glance with each other but say nothing.

"We've got this, sir."

John does not resist them, despite wishing they were in London and known to the ambulance service he knows that the two medics are perfectly capable of doing their job without him prattling on at them in the background. But what he does need to make sure is that they can handle his friend should he wake up.

In that instance, as if on cue, Sherlock lets out a groan, kicking his bare foot. The cannula not yet secured slides out and onto the gravely ground followed by a flow of blood.

"Damn." The paramedic quickly pushes a swab onto the detective's foot as the vein blows and bruises dramatically, but Sherlock tries to resist, he kicks out against the unfamiliar grasp.

"Mr Holmes?" The other medic who is now preparing an oxygen mask tried to speak to him. "You need to try and stay calm and still. Try not to panic, it's okay."

This only served to cause panic. Sherlock's eyes widen, disoriented and full of fear, he shivers, suddenly feeling the cold air from his open shirt.

"John?!" he cried.

His friend is on it, he knows how this will go if he allows it to escalate. He grasped his friend gently by the shoulders and looks into his eyes.

"I'm here," he says firmly but with sympathy, "Sherlock, look at me alright. Focus."

The detective's eyes roll around for a moment, he struggles and cries out against an unknown pain.

"Please let go of him," John says calmly, "he doesn't do well with strangers, give me a second please."

The paramedic attempting to stem the detectives blooming bruised foot opens his mouth to talk but closes it again when he sees the look in John's eye. No one questioned Captain Watson, ever. Both of them oblige and Sherlock's struggling settles almost instantly when their hands pull back.

"Sherlock?" John looks to him again, his eyes are still rolled slightly up and he tries not to panic at his friend's less than lucid state.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you," the words are slurred somewhat.

"Then look at me," the doctor commands.

The detective's eyes attempt to focus but it takes several seconds for them to finally centre on his friend before him.

"Good." John nods, "do you know where you are?"

"On a case."

The last word is barely recognisable but the doctor knows what he's trying to say. The fact that Sherlock's speech is now disjointed and slurred only cements the theory of severe head trauma. What John isn't sure about is whether his electrolyte balance is playing a hand in it too.

"What case is the Sherlock?" he asked slowly, he needs to assess his friend's level of consciousness and awareness.

"Tedious," is all he receives in return.

"Listen to me." John left the questioning for the moment. "You need to stay still for me. A lot is going to happen in next few minutes and hours but I need you to try and stay calm alright?"

"What?"

"You're not well Sherlock." The doctor gulped past the rising lump in his throat, "I need you to let me take care of you now, no more fighting against me."

"I'm fine John," Sherlock slurred worse than ever and John grimaced at it, looking to the medic who is patiently holding an oxygen mask awaiting instruction.

This is not going to be easy.

"Just need to give you some oxygen alright, just please don't fight it," he trails off. Taking the mask from the young lady he gently places it over his friend's mouth and nose.

For a second Sherlock's eyes snap wide open in panic.

"Easy," John soothed quickly. "It's okay, just relax."

The doctor manages the strap one handed and then pulls his best friend into him, curling one arm around Sherlock's neck he rolls him inwards so as to keep him away from the bustle of noise and lights around them. The flashlights of the many police are surrounding them and they are slowly pulling the murderer away who is shouting out in protest.

"Just a quick sharp scratch on your foot alright, just hold still okay." He nods to the other paramedic to carry on and attempt another intravenous cannula.

The detective doesn't answer or seem to notice the world around him. He's gulping in the rich oxygen under his mask, his eyes dropping to half lidded. He's shivering lightly against the cold and John accepts a blanket pulling it around his friend. Sherlock is exhausted, but John needs to keep him at least partially conscious due to the concussion.

Moments later an IV is in and secured.

The doctor debates internally weather sedation is a good option and decides that there are other monitors and tests to check his friend's concussion, right now what he needs is Sherlock to allow help not hinder it. He knows that despite being drained from the prolonged seizure that given the chance the detective will fight them every step of the way once things get moving.

"5mg of midazolam IV," he asks, hoping they can get away with a low dosage at first. "Let's see how we get on with it. We can always up the dose if he becomes difficult."

The medic doesn't question John at all. The dose is drawn up and trickled slowly into Sherlock's veins.

"Don't fight it," he said sadly.

Sherlock's bleary eyes turn to look at him.

"Just relax, I'll be right here when you wake again."

The detective's eyes narrow as if to decipher what exactly is happening but he loses his battle quickly and his eyes drop closed in moments.

John seems to breathe another long sigh of relief.

"Thank you." He turns back to the medics and smiles. "He really isn't the sort of person you want to treat conscious, trust me."

"Let's get him out of here." The young lady smiles back, handing John a neck brace, standard procedure in head trauma, well that is if you're an unconscious Sherlock Holmes. John can't imagine trying to put one on a conscious detective.

Saddened by the fact his friend is out cold John is actually glad of it, he's not actually sure how much more torture from kidnappings, arrests or medical procedures his friend can actually take before breaking.

So much for a break away from it all.

"Once we've sorted you out I swear to god I'm taking you on a holiday in the middle of bloody nowhere in some far reaching continent, away from any trouble," the doctor grumbles as he helps the two paramedics with his friend's lax body onto a gurney. "This is the last time I take you for a break in the country."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you all for your patience. Sorry for the late posting of this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 12

John was a patient man, in fact he actually prided himself on is ability to deal with Sherlock on a daily basis, yet right now he was becoming exceedingly impatient. He had refused to leave Sherlock's side from the second they had arrived at the hospital and the medical staff did not seem to have a problem with this. But he had a feeling that perhaps a certain Holmes brother had already been on the telephone. They had even followed John's advice on the detective's care and the younger man had remained sedated and unconscious, not resisting and seizure free for now, thankfully.

This was not what John was impatient about. Upon arrival a senior nurse had managed another intravenous line in one Sherlock's ruined arms and pulled a large amount of blood for analysis of his electrolyte levels, it has been sent urgently and results had yet to return.

John had to admit that he was probably being unreasonable, it had yet been ten minutes, and he knew many a machine would actually take this long - if not longer - to run the blood sample, let alone the time taken to load and prepare the sample.

And yet as every second passed he couldn't help but worry about the detective's state of health.

Sherlock had already been hooked up to every monitor and infusion possible. He was stripped half naked to just his underwear and was covered by a clutter of wires and lines which to anyone else looked like mess and disorder but John was reading the monitors and pumps with a critical medical eye.

"Christ mate."

John leant back on his chair and closed his eyes for a split second, the scene before him was just a little overwhelming.

"How could you be so stupid!" He exhaled, "to be fair how could I be so stupid?" he whispered.

Sherlock's silence was unnerving, and John studied his friend's face with concern. Though half of it was covered by an oxygen mask the deep hollows of the detective's eyes were almost haunting. John could easily make out the surgical scar from not two months ago from the jaw repair. The surgeons had done a good job at lining it up with Sherlock's jawline but it was visible if you looked, not that his friend ever allowed it.

The detective had become increasingly resistant to John's advances of care towards him, but he would not get away with it this time.

As a doctor, he knew they would have to wake Sherlock soon. There was a spread of dark red to purple bruising from the right hand side of the other man's messy hair line and a ghosting of colour around his eye. Without him being awake no one would be able to assess the level of damage to his brain.

John counted the wires and lines, following each from the lithe pale form of his friend to the monitors and machines.

Oxygen, ECG - a full 12 lead, pulse oximetry, blood pressure, two intravenous lines, one in his arm, the other his foot, the remaining foot was a bloom of purple, he winced at the sight.

The neck brace looked the worse, uncomfortable and restricting.

There were two light bandages on both of the detective's hands, he didn't want to know the mess they were. John hadn't seen the skin damage in the light, but had an idea.

A third dressing was lightly wrapped around Sherlock's curls in an attempt to cover the head wound hidden within his hair.

The machines were whirring away with two infusions, one of saline, another of midazolam at John's request.

He watched the ECG with nothing but concern, well aware it was abnormal, arrhythmic and far too fast but he was no cardiologist and this was like nothing he had seen before.

Why couldn't they just do something?

But he knew they couldn't, until those results printed out they were unable to do anything and he hoped Sherlock could remain stable for the time being.

John drifted into a cloud of endless thoughts, oblivious to the goings on around him.

Until, that is, his name was called.

"Doctor Watson," the lead clinician barked.

John looked up reading his badge off quickly. Dr Graham Mader, Lead Trauma surgeon. It was then he noticed the papers in his hands.

The results.

John's heart leapt in his chest.

"His lytes are all over the place, both sodium and potassium high which explains the heart issues. We're going to start forced diuresis, place a central line and monitor his CVP and heart very closely and pull blood every half hour to check we are going in the right direction. We'll get a direct arterial line in to help with that too. And a U cath to monitor his urine output and kidney function. Such a high level of potassium is not going to do them any good. The charge nurse has gone to find him an ICU bed for the night. If he improves he should be back on a ward by tomorrow but right now he needs too much care. Once settled we can also assess those wounds and his shoulder."

"I can help," was all John could manage.

All of a sudden everything was moving too quickly, the renewed bustle of activity was making him dizzy.

"I think you've been through enough this evening." The man looked to John over his large glasses and frowned. "You look like you need a good sleep."

John tried to speak but was taken aback.

The doctor smile to him.

"I know of Mr Holmes," he said. "A good colleague of mine did the orthopaedic surgery on him recently. He told me he wasn't an easy customer to deal with. He must have been hell during recovery."

John actually laughed, red rising up his cheeks in embarrassment.

"Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, he's a right bastard to treat, sorry about that."

"No need. Our patient is sedated for the time being." This time the senior doctor looked over Sherlock's face. "Is he always this lean?" he enquired.

"No." John's face suddenly drops to sadness. "He's been a beggar to get him to eat in recovery, he's bad at the best of times but we've really struggled. Placed a nasogastric feeding tube for a couple of days as a last resort but he ripped it out. I think he's really struggled with pain and just general bloody mindedness," he growled.

"Well, perhaps some parenteral nutrition won't go amiss in that central line then, but we won't let him know." The man tapped his nose in confirmation of the secret.

John couldn't help but smile, he was beginning to like this doctor, though he wasn't sure if the man knew what he was letting himself in for.

"We'll keep him sedated whilst we get all these lines and things sorted, the vascular surgeons are on their way so shouldn't be too long. Then we'll quickly bring him around to make a neurological assessment before heading to MRI for a head and C spine scan. The scanners booked, so we're working on a schedule here," he informed John, looking to his watch, "No time for hanging around."

The blogger was thankful to have the doctor on board, he clearly ran a tight ship here. No waits for treatment. John was thankful for this, as within minutes the surgeons arrived to place the jugular catheter into his friend. He had to take a step back to allow them to work but they were efficient and quick.

Before he knew it they had placed the central line cannula into Sherlock's neck and an arterial line into his brachial artery in his upper arm and were done.

"Now listen you," John said as he lowered himself unceremoniously into the seat beside the bed. He wrapped on hand around Sherlock's elbow which was relatively undamaged and squeezed gently.

"In a few minutes we're going to wake you up for a short interval and I need you to not panic, okay? There's a lot going on right now and you're going to be really sore and confused but you need to stay calm."

He knew the staff probably thought he was mental for talking to his unconscious friend but John had a funny feeling Sherlock may well be able to hear him. The midazolam infusion was that of rather a low dose. On any other occasion the detective would have fought his way to the surface of consciousness by now, which made John consider he may have squirreled himself away in his mind palace somewhere.

Minutes later the urinary catheter was taped in place to Sherlock's upper leg, John shuddered at the sight of it but knew why it was needed. The poor man was now literally stripped bare. The doctor pulled up the covers past the detective's waist to at least offer some form of dignity, not that Sherlock would ever care if he were awake.

"Shall we?" Dr Mader asked, though it was not really a question as he pressed the hold button on the infusion to stop the sedative.

The results were not instant but within a minute or so the detective's body began to tremble, lightly at first but then the movements slowly became more jerking and violent.

For a moment John thought he was spiralling into another seizure but suddenly his friend gave a low and agonising groan before his eyes snapped open.

Then, he did just was John thought he would.

He Panicked.

Before anyone could stop him he had wretched the oxygen mask off his face and called for his best friend, his hands grasping uselessly in the air with uncoordinated movements and his eyes darted about the room.

John was on his feet in a flash, and bending over the younger man, he had done this so many times, though he wished he hadn't.

Sherlock's jerking arms met John's torso and in a second and he grasped wildly at the fabric of it in his frenzy.

"John!?"

"Yes it's me, you plonker." John tried not to sound worried but it didn't work overly well. "It's alright now, you're in hospital, you need to stay calm and listen carefully."

"Hmm," Sherlock groaned again, closing his eyes against the pain.

It was then John realised he hadn't a clue if his friend had received much if anything in the way of analgesia, there was so much concern about his kidney function and blood pressures that he wasn't sure they had come to a decision on the best type to even give him.

The pain must have been deafening for the detective. The short moans and inhales told John everything, with a pain threshold like Sherlock's he must be in agony to be showing it so readily.

"Get him some pain relief," John growled.

"50 micrograms of fentanyl IV," the doctor asked.

"100 micrograms and start a CRI," John overruled him.

"I need him conscious for the neuro assessment," the other man countered.

"He will be," John answered, "Trust me, he can take it just fine."

The lead doctor only nodded in agreement, beckoning for a colleague who looked like a junior to start the detective off on yet another infusion. John was beginning to see why the ICU bed was in order, a nurse on a general ward would probably have a meltdown at the concoction of drugs and monitors, which, at every possible moment would likely alarm simultaneously.

Minutes later, as the drug slowly infused the detective's system he relaxed somewhat, though refused to let go of his friend's shirt for the time being. He was bent forward slightly from where John had now raised the bed up a little and was still sucking in short sharp inhales but they were less harsh. His bandaged head rested into John's shoulder

"John?" Sherlock huffed.

"Yes Sherlock?" The doctor gently held a hand behind each of the detective's shoulders, careful not to aggravate the injured one.

"You smell nice," he murmured, "of tea and biscuits and Mrs Hudson's washing powder. Did she do your washing again, you lazy John?"

John chuckled slightly, perhaps Sherlock wasn't ready to take this level of opioids, but he didn't care, his friend was in considerable pain, and if he was going to be a little dysphoric to be free from it, then so be it.

"I can start..." Dr Mader asked.

"Let me," John replied, slowly pushing his friend back into the bed with some half hearted protests from the detective.

"Sherlock," he said gently. "Do you know where you are?"

The detective winced, squeezing his eyes shut he hummed to himself. Bringing a hand up, he rubbed one eye then winced again when his dressings suddenly caught a line.

John waited patiently, watching whilst his friend paused to think.

"You said hospital," Sherlock finally came out with, his speech was slurred again now. "But I'm on a case. Why are we here and why is it so dull here? Not a very good hospital?"

"What?" The pit of worry in the doctor's stomach twisted angrily. "What do you mean?"

"Dull," Sherlock groaned.

John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock." His voice actually broke a little, "can you see me at all?"

"Yes, yes," the detective mumbled, "stop being so slow. Of course I see you, but it's dark in here. Did some moron turn all the lights off?"

John turned to the lead doctor, all medical knowledge had now escaped him and the worry was suddenly turning to full blown panic.

He had to stay calm.

"Visual disruption or disturbance is perfectly normal if the patient has received trauma to the occipital lobe Doctor Watson."

He knew this.

Why was he being so unreasonable? It was a normal response, and it didn't mean anything sinister necessarily.

And yet, the thought of anything happening to the genius brain of Sherlock made John's chest tighten, without his intellect, Sherlock Holmes was, well, not a consulting detective.

"I want to go home," the younger man suddenly interrupted the doctor's thoughts.

He had sat himself up again before John had realised and was now pulling at his arterial line, the tape was holding but a forceful pull and there would be more than a little arterial spray, not something anyone wanted right now.

"Whoa, stop that." John prized the line out of his friend's grasp. "You're going nowhere."

"Well we can't stay here." Sherlock pointed, though his bandaged hands made this difficult, "this place is abysmal, who's this?" He gestured to the nearby trainee who looked slightly nervous.

"He's a junior doctor Sherlock, look at me please." John tried to bring the detectives attention back to himself but there was no stopping him now.

"Junior doctor?" Sherlock's voice wobbled slightly and slurred as he suddenly began to talk to break neck speed. "Not much of one I'd say, this one has more sleepless nights than I, been using cocaine regularly too, going by the nose."

The young man rubbed his nose reflexively in response but the detective wasn't finished.

"Snorting is so unreliable, I would move to intravenous. Much better way to get a calculated dose, don't you think? I recommend a seven percent solution. I suppose it doesn't matter, your mother threw you out three weeks ago now because she found out your little habit, been staying in hostels ever since judging by the state of your unkempt hair and smell of musty rooms, not been on shift long, have you? But of course now you're making money by stealing drugs from the hospital to fuel your little pastime. And your girlfriend, gone off the rails, stoked up on antidepressants seeing a therapist, how are you going to tell her? Perhaps you should break it off now before you really tip her over the edge and she kills herself..."

"Sherlock!" John shouted as simultaneously the young doctor launched himself for the bed bound detective.

John, despite being on the opposite side of the gurney had no problems in fending off the other man, even if he was actually taller than him.

With one well placed outstretched palm John pushed the young man hard in the solar plexus, with just enough force to send the doctor staggering backwards and onto his knees unceremoniously. Sherlock might have deserved a punch in the face but in the current state of health he was in he certainly wouldn't take it right now.

"Get him out of here!" Dr Mader shouted to a gaggle of nurses now gossiping and pointed to the writhing man on the ground. "And get that midazolam running again."

Two of the young nurses pulled the young doctor from the floor.

"I want you in my office and if you attempt to leave I will have the police involved do you understand?" the head surgeon warned as the young man was lead away.

"You cock!" John growled.

"What?" Sherlock tried to pull himself to the edge of the bed but John blocked him.

"You're going nowhere but MRI, and when this is over we're going to talk about this," John grumbled, "but right now you're going to have a nap."

"No I'm not."

The familiar beep of the infusion pump restarting filled the doctors ears.

"Oh yes you are," he smiled almost sadistically yet he truly was sad to watch his friend be pulled under by the sedative.

Sherlock frowned slightly before his eyes rolled and he swayed and John guided him back to the bed as he drifted into darkness again.

* * *

12 lead ECG – a more comprehensive ECG as it is more accurate than a simple 4 lead

Lytes – short word for electrolytes (eg your sodium, potassium, phosphorus and calcium in the blood)

Forced diuresis – increases a persons urine excretion by diuretics and increased fluids, it is used in poisonings and overdoses to help flush through the system. In this case it will help balance out the electrolytes too.

CVP – central venous pressure – the pressure within the vena cava (central vein). The measurement of this can be very helpful in monitoring heart function, sepsis and fluid overload etc.

Central line – a central venous catheter which is placed into a large external vein and often directly stretches into the main vena cava or even atrium of the heart. There are a lot of different ones, in veterinary medicine we place them into the jugular vein which is what I did here but in real life they may choose to put it somewhere else in Sherlock.

Arterial line – a catheter placed directly into an artery to measure blood pressure directly and if needed arterial blood gases

U catheter – a urinary catheter inserted directly into the urethra and into the bladder

Parenteral nutrition – nutrition given directly into the veins, often given in very intensive care patients who are unable to eat

C spine – cervical (neck) spine

Occipital lobe – the lobe of the brain which is directly at the back of the skull (where you can feel a small crest at the base of the skull), the area of the brain here is used for primarily visual interpretation etc.


End file.
